Mr Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo
by SonOfTed
Summary: A brutal murder at the Los Angeles Zoo appears to be just one small link in a larger chain of events. Hoping to speed along his newest homicide investigation, the legendary Lt. Columbo requests assistance from Adrian Monk.
1. Death Visits The Los Angeles Zoo

**DISCLAIMER:** _The following is fan fiction utilizing events and characters from two of television's most famous detective series: "Columbo" and "Monk". It is fan fiction only… there is NO intent here to collect income or infringe on the trademarks, copyrights, or patented work of others. Please DO NOT use this material for anything other than pure reading enjoyment._

* * *

><p><strong>Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Synopsis: A brutal murder at the Los Angeles Zoo appears to be just one small link in a larger chain of events. Hoping to speed along his newest homicide investigation, the legendary Lt. Columbo calls his colleague Leland Stottlemeyer in San Francisco and formally requests assistance. Everyone in California, you see, has heard of the infamous Adrian Monk and his super powered detective skills.<em>

_Will Adrian Monk and Natalie Teeger accept Columbo's invitation to assist him with the ongoing investigation?_

_Will Captain Leland Stottlemeyer and Lt. Randy Disher tag along?_

_Will TWO top investigators, Monk and Columbo, be sufficient brain power to solve this mysterious murder? Or will they drive each other crazy?_

_Author's Notes: I have to say, the "series finale" of "Monk" is one of my favorite of all time. "Mr. Monk and the End" really pulled everything together and made the whole series complete. This story takes place shortly after the conclusion of the series, even though Columbo would have long since retired. Mom and I watched him the entire time I was growing up, and he (along with the traditional raincoat) will always be Columbo, even though he took a brief respite from playing TV's most famous detective in order to narrate the wonderful "Princess Bride". Through the magic of fan fiction, an elderly Columbo remains with the LAPD long enough to work this particular case with Adrian Monk._

_Also, the map of the Los Angeles zoo provided on my profile page is very basic and non-specific. I'm using it so that both writer and reader have a basic reference as to where specific scenes take place. I've found that the technique of using at least generalized graphics can help me greatly throughout a project, and also assist the reader in better visualizing scenes. The exhibits and locations within the zoo are mostly mine… I have never been to this particular tourist attraction. So the vast majority of the animals, vendor booths and decorations have all been created specifically for this story._

* * *

><p><strong>Death Visits The Los Angeles Zoo<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Friday morning, 1:05 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Devon Petersen glanced down at the pair of nines in his head and shook his dark haired head firmly. "You win Ed," he told Edward Casington, the elderly, gray haired security officer sitting opposite him. "Believe it or not, I got nothin' once again." Frustrated, he tossed his five cards onto the small table in front of him and reached for his partner's discarded hand. Sighing deeply, he began a quick shuffle of the cards while old Ed sipped tepid coffee half-heartedly from a white foam cup.<p>

Surrounding the two of them was an impressive array of technology – computers and display screens that offered a close up look at more than seventy percent of the Los Angeles Zoo. Even the private, fenced areas not open to the public – sites reserved primarily for maintenance and animal care crews – were normally available for surveillance by the zoo's security team. Now, however, the current time was well after normal zoo hours and most of the outdoor surveillance cameras were powered down. Soon, it had been promised, cameras with night vision would be available. That kind of promise, unfortunately, was all too often fully dependent upon the status of the zoo's budget, the availability of county and local funding, along with the generosity of its donors. For now, the security team made do by conducting regular and unscheduled walks around the grounds during the night time. And the monitors that showed what was happening at key areas inside the Administrative office complex remained fully functional even during the late night hours.

Unexpectedly, Petersen's transceiver crackled electronically to life. "_Lauden to Peterson_," said an all too familiar voice. "_Could you come outside for a minute?_"

Petersen groaned slightly and picked up the walkie talkie. "What's up Frank?" he asked curiously.

"_I think I heard someone walking around… I'm over by the fountain_."

"I'll be right there," promised Petersen, rising from his seat and hooking the radio to his belt. He rolled his eyes in Ed's direction, smiling at the old man. "Think you can hold things together in here for a minute?"

"Sure," Ed nodded warily, his own inquisitiveness obvious. "The fountain… that's right near this building. How could anyone have gotten through the security fence?"

"I don't know," said Petersen honestly. "It's probably nothing. If it isn't, I'll call in the cops."

Devon stepped out into the darkness and walked due north, leaving behind the main entrance to the Los Angeles zoo's small Security and First Aid building. He walked firmly toward Eucalyptus Grove, and the increasing sound of water flowing through the large fountain centered there gradually overpowered the steady sound of crickets chirping in the background. "I can't see or hear anything unusual," he stated truthfully, tugging gently on his uncomfortable, light blue shirt and black tie with his left hand. Although the sun was long since down for the night, it was still mighty warm and uncomfortable outside. Devon's right hand dropped anxiously toward the walkie talkie attached to his belt – his sole ability to call for help if there was indeed a looming emergency. "There's nobody else out here."

"_Keep walking towards me_," suggested Frank Lauden, his partner of many years. Mild electronic distortion clouded the brief transmission, but Peters was used to the feedback and able to mentally filter the brief message.

Frustrated, the security guard pulled the walkie talkie free and held it up to his mouth. "I'd love to. Where exactly _are_ you?" Petersen asked curiously, squinting as he moved cautiously from one lamp post to the next. The illuminated areas were easy to see and approach, but everything else in the surrounding area was draped in the dark, all-encompassing shadows of the night. He paused for a few brief seconds, long enough to remove a large flashlight from his belt and switch it on. Continuing to walk north, he poked the bright, steady beam back and forth toward nearby areas of possible concealment.

"_I'm standing on the north side of the fountain near the grove… and I_ definitely_ heard something_."

Petersen continued moving slowly forward, toward the sound of the fountain's rushing water. Strategically placed conveniently close to the walkway leading into the main zoo area, it was a very popular attraction that invariably lured most of the zoo's visitors to stop for at least a brief once over. Essentially, the fountain was an enormous tribute to fairy tales that had been carefully shaped and created by the loving hands of several local artists. A lengthy, tapered castle tower reached steadily upward from the center, representing the prison where the mythical Rapunzel had supposedly been held. Indeed, out of one tiny window high up near its apex were rolling locks of her lengthy hair flowing out and steadily downward.

Specifically how the artists had managed to shape and form artistry of this detail using only buckets, water, a special form of workable concrete and small metal tools remained somewhat of a mystery to those who had not been present to witness its creation. Normally used to working with several tons of sand in front of tourists on beaches, they had been recruited by zoo staff familiar with their work to create this particular display out of a more permanent cement mix. Impressed by the final product, the zoo's maintenance staff had even found some sort of transparent sealant to permanently cover the finished product and thereby prepare it for the constant flow of water. Since the central tower was hollow, it had been easy to prepare the entire display in advance for its eventual transformation into a large fountain.

Surrounding the tower were other creatures and characters from the fairy tales originally written by the Brothers Grimm. The slim, beautiful Cinderella stood facing Devon, stepping out of a giant pumpkin carriage with wheels. Huge horses with carefully shaped, wavy manes stood waiting in front, and one of her slippers lay nearby for her prince to find. To her left, Hansel and Gretel moved slowly through a small grove of trees shaped entirely out of sand, dropping their traditional bread crumbs to mark their progress. Opposite of Cinderella, Snow White sat smiling in a simple high-backed chair, surrounded on all sides by the seven dwarves. Behind her, lying on a luxurious bed carefully formed from carefully shaped concrete, was the infamous Sleeping Beauty. Wicked witches and other fairy creature characters were also present, all of them encircling the central tower that served as Rapunzel's prison.

From the top of the sinister looking tower, a steady stream of water gurgled out of a custom made spout, running down all sides and across most of the fairy creatures captured in artistically crafted cement below. An oval shaped aluminum fence had been carefully constructed to surround the edges of the circular base and contain the steadily flowing water. Holes strategically drilled near the edges of the rim allowed the water to flow beneath the cement base – back into a recycling pump that rerouted the liquid back up through the center of the tower for yet another journey back down. The entire attraction was impossible to admire in one simple sitting; many of the zoo's visitors would return several times throughout the day and spend a great deal of time examining its many different characters.

Children were always reluctant to leave, and seldom did so before asking one or both parents for a handful of nickels and pennies to toss toward their favorite part of the exhibit. No one knew precisely how long the sealant would last… sooner or later the cement would crack or the steady erosion of the running water would ruin everything. The uncertainty of how long that would take was one of the key components to the fountain's popularity and a big part of its lure. During most of the day when visitors were plenty, cameras and video devices worked overtime to capture images of a fantastic display that was only temporary. One day it would crack or begin to fall apart, and then something new would have to take its place.

His anxiety climbing steadily higher with each passing minute, Devon Petersen held tight to his walkie-talkie as he eased past the gurgling fountain. There was too much shadowy darkness to make out anything more than general shapes, but he could tell that Rumpelstiltskin sat next to him just inside the fountain's metal fence. The famous gnome's unmoving, hump-backed shape was frozen in time as he sat busily working to turn straw into gold using a simple spinning machine. Behind the legendary gnome, the outline of a large wolf in Grandmother's nighttime clothing was clearly visible stalking Red Riding Hood, an attractive but innocent-looking little girl whose carefully crafted expression on a normal, sunlit day offered the appearance that she was completely unaware of the danger she was in.

"There's _nothing_ here, Frank," insisted Petersen with growing frustration, even though his apprehension refused to ease. A sixth sense in the back of his mind _was_ in fact suggesting that possible danger lurked, but for now he was content to dismiss such feelings as simple, nervous energy. He took a few more cautious steps forward and moved past the fountain, into a small cluster of eucalyptus trees drenched almost entirely in darkness. Farther on and beneath one of the overhead lights designed to light the zoo at night, he could see the partially silhouetted outline of his partner patiently waiting for him. Though mostly hidden in shadows, Frank Lauden's shorter, stout figure was unmistakable.

"I am certain there is someone else here," replied his partner after noticing his partner was close enough to allow him the luxury of switching off his own radio. Surrounded by inky black shadow, Lauden took a few steps toward Devon Petersen and then paused. Behind him, the tall, lean shape of another man emerged from a large row of bushes and stepped confidently into view. The figure was shrouded almost totally by darkness and impossible to recognize.

"Frank, _look out!_" Petersen shouted in warning, aiming his flashlight directly toward the newcomer. "There's someone _behind_ you!" He shifted his walkie talkie from his left hand to his right, while at the same time moving the flashlight to his left hand. His thumb moved toward the transmit button in an effort to send a warning to the central security desk in the Administrative complex, but a familiar voice froze him in his tracks.

"It's just me, Petersen," a familiar voice growled, somewhat irritably from behind Lauden. The newcomer held up a left hand awkwardly, using it to shield his eyes from the intense glow of the powerful flashlight.

Instantly the hair on the back of Petersen's neck stiffened. "_Mike_, what are you doing here?" he asked curiously, trying to avoid sounding defensive but failing miserably. He immediately recognized the voice, and it belonged to the last person he wanted to talk to just now. "How did you get inside the fence?"

"I let him in," said Lauden, folding his arms in front of him. Petersen couldn't see his expression, but he didn't at all like the tone of voice his partner was suddenly using. He hesitated, unsure of what to say next. Off to the northeast, he heard an exotic call from one of the exotic birds housed there.

"I just stopped by to have a brief conversation with Frank here," stated Mike tersely, still standing near the bush row behind Lauden. "We have a lot of merchandise hidden on this complex, after all, and I thought it best to check up on you two from time to time." He paused, just long enough to escalate Petersen's anxiety even more. "I put a GPS locator in the briefcase, Petersen. I've been watching it for weeks in order to make sure it stays where you two were supposed to bury it."

"That's how we know it's been moved," snapped Lauden, sounding much more confident than he had during the initial transmission that he had dispatched in order to lure Petersen outdoors.

"Your partner has convinced me that it wasn't him," continued Mike. "So what did you do with the stash Devon… that's all we want to know. Give us back the merchandise, and everything is okay."

His fingers shaking through the entire process, Petersen reattached the walkie talkie to his belt and then held up a hand of his own to shield him from the return glare of Frank Lauden's flashlight. The beam was stabbing out of the darkness and its light had illuminated him totally. "Okay… I was going to tell you guys later," he stated truthfully. "I couldn't live with it… knowing that we had so much valuable merchandise hidden here, right out in the open." He shrugged. "I know we had an agreement, but I just wanted to make certain they were safe."

"Bull. _Where_ are my diamonds?" Clearly evident by his raised voice, Mike the mysterious newcomer was not in the mood for games. "My locator puts the brief case within range of the _Administration_ building. For your sake and that of your wife and daughter, I dearly hope you didn't break our agreement and _tell_ someone about our little stash…"

"No," Petersen insisted with a sharp shake of his head. "I couldn't stand seeing the newly dug dirt around the spot where we hid it… that's all. The animal trainers and caretakers were driving right past the location in their jeeps and trucks, and it was clearly obvious that something had been buried there. Sooner or later someone would have gotten curious and looked. So I moved it, that's all." The lies poured out of his mouth and revealed themselves instantly – he was not good at deception and had not expected the other two to respond so swiftly.

"You moved ten million dollars in diamonds to the _Administration_ building?" Now Frank Lauden was clearly teed off. "What were you thinking Devon? We've talked about this over and over…"

"He wasn't concerned about us," said Mike accusingly. "You were planning on taking them _out_ of the zoo and keeping it all, weren't you?" He nearly spat out each word, he was so furious. "A twenty percent cut of ten and a half _million_ dollars wasn't enough for you… you wanted _everything _for yourselfdidn't you?" A bright blue square of light suddenly appeared in his left hand, clearly revealing a small, portable GPS tracking screen. The soft glow from the device also revealed the .38 caliber gun gripped tightly in his right.

"No, I _swear_ to you both," said a clearly rattled Petersen. "The office complex is just _temporary_. By morning the stash would have been in a new location… through the trees next to the maintenance shed over by the giraffe pen. One of those trees has a weird knothole and can be easily located. I swear I wasn't going to steal all those diamonds – I wouldn't do that to you guys… not after everything we've been through together." Hoping to allay the fears of the other two, Devon Petersen reached into his pocket and retrieved something. He held out his left hand and shone the beam of his flashlight onto half a dozen or so medium-sized, glittering gemstones. "I took a few of them to exchange for cash," he told them. "In case we needed some extra money to tide us over until the time comes to cash in the rest. The briefcase will be in a safer location by morning, I promise. You can trust me."

"If we could trust you, you wouldn't have moved the case in the first place." The enigmatic man named Mike stepped angrily forward and furiously slapped Petersen's hand, causing the gemstones to fly away into the night, sparkling through the subdued lighting like colorful fireflies. "But you are right about one thing," nodded the mysterious intruder firmly. "The briefcase _will_ be safe by morning. That's why I chose _two_ of you in the first place – in case one of you proved to be… untrustworthy."

"Mike, honest to God…" The sentence trailed off as Mike suddenly lashed out and struck Devon Petersen hard with the pistol he held. The security guard's head snapped back, and he cried out in pain before dropping to his knees. Furious and uncontrolled, the zoo's unwelcome after hours guest reared back and hit him again… at the base of the skull this time. Petersen dropped instantly to the rocky walking path and groaned audibly. He twitched uncontrollably for several seconds and then went completely still. For the next minute or two, there was only the sound of crickets and an occasional bird call. Around them, a soft breeze had crept in, chasing away much of the muggy night air.

"Geez Mike, you never said anything about _killing_ him," gasped a shocked Frank Lauden. He bent over his partner's prone body and carefully checked Petersen's neck for a pulse. Standing back up, he began backing slowly away from the man standing next to him. You just made me an accessory to _murder_."

"I risked my entire _career_ for this small fortune," replied Mike grimly. He turned his head, and the glow from Lauden's flashlight revealed curly, sandy-brown hair and an unshaven chin. "You're my inside man here in the zoo now, my only option." Still fuming, he opened his jacket and tucked the weapon away using an inner pocket. "What do you care? Your share of the take just went up to _forty_ percent."

"I _liked_ Devon," Lauden protested honestly. "He was my _friend_ and so were his wife and kid. Whatever he was going to do, you didn't have to kill him for it."

"Your so-called _friend_ was going to sell us out," snapped Mike sharply in response. "Either he was going to grab his family and run with everything or he was going to turn us in to the authorities. There's no other reason for him to have moved the briefcase." He took a deep breath and frowned. In the darkness of the night and the reduced, peripheral glow from Frank Lauden's flashlight, his expression was unreadable.

"I don't like this," decided Lauden with a frightened shake of his head. "I don't like this at all."

"All the more reason for you to shut up and stick to our plan," Mike hissed angrily. "You and I are both in it now, up to our necks. So maybe _this_ time I can rely on you to do as you're _told!_"

"_He's_ the one that dug up the merchandise!" growled an irritated Lauden cautiously, his voice tinged with fear. "It's like I was telling you earlier… he got spooked. He couldn't live with what we were doing… changed his mind a few weeks back and wanted out of the deal entirely. I _told_ him he couldn't back out now; that the guy you stole from would never miss a cent. But he couldn't live with the deal we made, even though he gave us his word. He was determined to somehow make things right." The security guard shook his head, clearly frustrated. "Devon didn't like being a bad role model for his daughter. That damned family of his screwed up everything for us…"

"Not yet, it hasn't," said the other man abruptly. "Devon Petersen is the least of our problems now." He held out the GPS locator in his left hand and studied its display. "We have to find that briefcase and bury it again before it gets light outside… before they find _him_." He pointed toward Petersen's unmoving body.

"Then let's do exactly that," agreed Lauden. He retrieved his walkie talkie and activated it. Although he kept his voice calm, for the most part, his stomach was completely unsettled. "Ed, there's nothing out here," he said, doing his best to speak normally and ignore his frayed nerves. "Petersen and I are going to walk the grounds one more time to be certain, and then we'll check in. It'll take about twenty minutes."

"_Acknowledged_," replied Ed almost instantly. "_I'll make another pot of coffee_."

"Copy that," nodded Frank Lauden as he terminated the transmission. His gaze shifted toward Mike, who was still framed mostly by shadows. "All right, let's find that briefcase."

"Not yet. First things first," said Mike with a negative shake of his head. "Find those diamonds I slapped out of Petersen's hand."

Lauden began shifting his light back and forth across the area between his position and the nearby, gurgling fountain. On the walking path, several points of light glittered back at him. "Okay," he decided with a firm nod. "Let's do this."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> I'm working with a new laptop this time around, so please bear with me if there are a few typos here or there. This keyboard is not as comfortable as the previous one was for lengthy periods of typing. If you want to help me beta/proof each chapter, please PM me with corrections. That way the reviews won't contain information that changes as I correct and replace chapters where needed._

_This story is taking some time to form in my mind, and I'll probably write a bit slower than usual (and perhaps not as much). Bear with me… I have just discovered with Chapter One that mysteries are very complex and difficult to put together!_


	2. Fatal Mistake

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Fatal Mistake**

* * *

><p><em>Friday morning, 1:18 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>It took only minutes for Frank Lauden to realize that his mild anxiety had transitioned at some point into outright fear. Waving his flashlight cautiously back and forth, he was able to locate and pick up the fallen diamonds – one by one – until he had a half dozen gems glittering from the subdued lighting in his left palm. With each success, however, he was fully conscious of just how badly his fingertips were trembling. He had never in his life killed anybody… certainly had never seen anyone murdered so coldly and brutally. Glancing reluctantly to his right, he was once more unnerved to see Devon Petersen's inert body lying motionless, draped in shadow near the gurgling fountain. Slow, deep breathing wasn't helping much, and Lauden continued to struggle more and more with control over his emotions as each second passed.<p>

"I've got the diamonds Mr. Van Portman," hissed Lauden softly. The mugginess of the night air had gone suddenly chill with the appearance of a cool breeze, and he fought to keep his composure. In less than twenty minutes, old Ed Mertz would be coming outside to check up on him – on Lauden and Petersen. And then he would discover the body, and all of Lauden's dreams for a wealthier lifestyle would be lost forever.

The other man paused for just an instant to frown. A soft, blue glow from the device he carried illuminated his normally boyish-looking face from below, casting sinister black shadows in all the wrong places. "I've _told_ you repeatedly never to refer to me by my last name," snapped Van Portman heatedly. "These days, you never know where surveillance equipment can be hidden… even a child's toy can pick up incriminating information. Call me Mike if you have to… nothing more and nothing less."

Nervously Lauden studied what he could see of the expression on the face of the slowly moving form of his colleague. "Where are you going?" he asked curiously. Mike Van Portman ignored him for a moment, easing cautiously through the western edge of Eucalyptus Grove before striding more purposefully and confidently toward the south.

"I'm following the money trail," replied Van Portman finally, working his way back away from the flood lights that illuminated the eastern side of the Administration complex. His gaze was focused on the screen of the small, portable GPS device in his hands, waiting for its tracking software to update the display. Slowing to a stop for several quick seconds, he shot an emotionless gaze toward Lauden. "Let's have those diamonds, Frank. Our agreement was for your entire cut to be paid upon _sale_… not before."

Lauden complied, handing them over to the man who had originally trusted both him and Devon Petersen with their short term care. At the time, the deal had seemed to be a piece of cake. All he and Petersen had been required to do was quit their current jobs and apply for a pair of open security positions at the zoo. After that, all they needed to do was to hide the diamonds somewhere safe until Van Portman was certain that no one was trying to trace them. After that, he and Petersen would receive over two million dollars apiece, just for babysitting the loot. Of course the temptation would always be present to try and grab all of the money for themselves, but it now turned out that this was precisely the reason why Van Portman had recruited _two_ co-conspirators. With Petersen dead, all of the remaining responsibility had been dropped entirely onto Lauden's shoulders. Again, a wave of fear and apprehension swept through him like a passing ghost in the night. He didn't know Van Portman well, but he had seen enough to be afraid.

There was significantly less lighting on the western side of the buildings, simply because there was nothing beyond them except for a couple of dimly lit exit doorways and an executive parking lot that was deliberately kept empty during off hours. Even in the daytime, only top level zoo officials were allowed vehicle access through the outer gates – everyone else had to park just south of the fence perimeter and present their credentials at the main entrance. That was, in fact, exactly how Lauden had allowed Van Portman into the zoo… by using his security card to open the smaller gate in the Entry Plaza. Remembering the incident, Lauden suddenly put a hand on Van Portman's shoulder to stop him. "What about the security logs?" he asked in a voice laden with growing hysteria. "If the police find a body, the computer files will show that _my_ card was used to let you in after hours. We should dump it somewhere."

"No," declared Van Portman firmly. "There are already clues and forensic evidence back at the fountain. Any attempt on our part to move Petersen will just create additional evidence for the authorities." He trailed off abruptly, deep in thought. "How does your system log access when it is granted at the gate?"

"I would imagine it's a simple text file," Lauden mused thoughtfully. "We don't have anything really sophisticated – a great deal of a security system's potential relies on the trustworthiness of its users." He shrugged his shoulders idly. "That is, unless you want to pay top dollar to babysit a bunch of animals. There are a lot more, better places to rob in the L.A. area… mostly we just chase away vandals."

"There you go," Van Portman chuckled darkly. "I'll go and track down the missing briefcase. You sneak back into the security office, access a terminal, and then use it to switch the access entry. Replace your card key code with Petersen's. Tomorrow, when the police find the body, you tell them _Petersen_ let me in." He smiled confidently. "Once you're done, return to the fountain and wait for me. I'll use your own handcuffs to chain you to the fountain's railing. That way you can tell your boss _and_ the police that Petersen must have been the one who let someone in and that whoever it was apparently argued with and then killed him. It's a simple story, tough to question and has the advantage of including at least some of the truth."

Thinking the matter over, Lauden's anxiety decreased slightly and he nodded slowly. "I like that plan," he admitted reluctantly. "But I can change the computer file in the morning, after the authorities release me from the handcuffs."

The other man shook his head negatively. "I want you to change it _tonight!_" he insisted angrily. "Once the police get here, they're going to cordon off everything related to the crime." He grabbed Lauden by the scruff of his light blue shirt. "Petersen is wearing a _security_ uniform just like yours, so they're going to – at minimum – _suspect_ that your team's integrity has been compromised."

"We have a small office area next to the First Aid station," Lauden protested. "If old Ed Mertz is hanging around, he will definitely see me."

"Make sure he _doesn't_," snapped Van Portman. "Trust me Frank, your _life_ depends on you getting that file changed. Without it there's no way to create an alibi for you."

Lauden felt the blood drain out of his face. A fresh gust from the night breeze chilled him to the bone. "Okay," he agreed finally. "I'll do it and then meet you over by the fountain when I'm done."

"_Wonderful_," Van Portman oozed sarcastically. Still intently studying the global positioning device in his hands, he vanished into the surrounding night on a course toward the rear of the main office complex.

* * *

><p><em>Friday morning, 1:34 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>As things turned out, it took Frank Lauden slightly more than twelve minutes to return to the main Security building and complete his assigned task. Luck was with him this night, as he quickly noticed upon his arrival back at the office. Old Ed had retreated into a small conference room on the west side of the building in order to brew the new pot of coffee that he had promised Frank. Moving swiftly and keeping low, Lauden re-entered the building and sat down behind the nearest computer work station in the empty main office. Working as quickly as he dared, he located the text file used to log security card usage and replaced the most recent gate access entry with Devon Petersen's identification code. Then he saved the changes, logged off of the terminal and retreated back out into the darkness of the night. He was not a computer expert, but still reasonably certain that there were no redundant backup files to deal with.<p>

Mike Van Portman was waiting for him at the fountain. The man's sinister expression triggered a fresh wave of fear that threatened to spread outward from Lauden's chest and overwhelm him. Stifling the urge to panic, he fought it off successfully and glanced at the open briefcase lying at Van Portman's feet. "It's _empty_," he snarled with obvious ferocity. "_Where_ are my diamonds?"

A stunned Lauden paused for some time before replying. "Empty? You must be mistaken," he gasped finally, honestly baffled just like his partner. "The diamonds have to be there… they _have_ to be!"

"Well they're _not_," growled Van Portmann, kicking the empty briefcase toward Lauden so that he could see for himself. "I found that in one of the dumpsters next to the parking lot. It was sealed just like it should be, but when I opened it – there was absolutely nothing there… nothing…" His glare stabbed hatefully at Lauden. "I sincerely hope that the tragedy of this night will not turn out to be a… _double_ one." His right hand shifted toward the inside of his jacket and the weapon concealed there.

"Devon _can't_ have taken them," Lauden insisted desperately. Now he was fighting back stronger and stronger urges to panic. "Certainly he hasn't taken them out of the zoo… he started his night shift _after_ normal zoo hours. Everything was closed down tightly when he arrived, as is our usual routine. _My_ card entry was the only one in the log after our shift started… I just verified that." Leaning over, he picked up the empty case and examined all of its pockets thoroughly, noticing that most of its leathery interior had been shredded with a sharp knife. Hanging from one of the knife slices in the front pocket was a small chain. Dangling from its tip was the GPS locator that had been concealed inside. A small white light on its surface twinkled in the darkness, showing that the tiny device still retained power.

Pulling out the .38 caliber hand gun, Van Portman pointed it at Lauden. "_What_ did you two do with my diamonds?" he demanded sharply. "I swear Frank, if you're _lying_ to me…"

"I'm _not_ lying!" insisted Lauden hysterically, dropping to his knees and putting raising his arms defensively in front of his face. "Whatever Devon did with them, they've still _got_ to be somewhere in this zoo. You _heard_ him… he was nervous about where we buried them… wanted them in a safer location."

After a few more seconds of intimidation, Van Portman lowered the revolver. "What are you going to tell the police tomorrow, Frank?" he asked suddenly. "When they ask you what happened here tonight, _what_ are you going to tell them?"

Swallowing uncomfortably, Lauden thought his answer over very carefully before responding. Considering his current emotional state, it was a miracle that he was still lucid at all. "I'm going to tell them that we didn't find anything at first… that I just thought I heard something and called Devon out here," he stated slowly, after a lengthy pause. "After we investigated the Grove, I called in to tell Ed that my original call turned out to be nothing, but that we were going to do a standard, twenty minute sweep of all the walking paths before returning to the office."

"Very good Frank," nodded Van Portman while tapping the barrel of his revolver on Frank's left shoulder for emphasis. "_Then_ you're going to tell them that the two of you split up. You were ambushed and immobilized near the fountain – presumably by me – but didn't regain consciousness until Petersen was already dead. Since you've changed the computer log, it will look as though Petersen let me in and then got killed for his trouble. Unless you screw things up, suspicion should be thrown completely off of you."

"Okay," said Lauden agreeably, nodding as fast as his head would move. "Okay, yes. That makes sense."

"And then, once the investigation dies down a bit, you're going to search Petersen's locker, along with everything and everywhere else he has access here at the zoo. You're going to _find_ my diamonds, _aren't_ you Frank?"

"Yes."

"I've already searched Petersen," pointed out Van Portman informatively. "So if the diamonds are not in the security office with the rest of his personal items, then he no doubt buried or hid them elsewhere in the zoo. That is, _unless_ you're _wrong_ and he did manage to somehow get them out of here… maybe hand them through the fence to someone."

"_No_ way." Lauden's stance was emphatic. "He logged on for tonight's night shift _after_ the zoo closed. Everyone was gone except for the three of us, I'm certain of it. And that's when you said that the case was first moved. Nobody is working late tonight – I would have seen them arrive from the gate monitor."

Van Portman paused, evaluating his recent memories for a moment. "If you don't find the diamonds in the security office, where are you going to look next?" he asked curiously.

"Well, I don't know," sighed Frank Lauden wearily. 'I suppose I'll start with the obvious restricted areas, like the work spaces behind the cages that are off limits to the general public. That's where we both figured was best… hiding them in a public place but in areas where no one but authorized zoo staff could get to.'

"You _don't_ know?" Van Portman's hair triggered temper rose once more. "Earlier, Petersen was talking about a spot near the maintenance shed by the giraffe pen… near a tree with an odd looking knothole. That's your _second_ priority target, Lauden… _after_ you search his stuff in the security office."

"I might not get the chance. The police will likely confiscate his things."

"They won't get the diamonds," snapped Van Portman heatedly. "Even Petersen wouldn't be stupid enough to leave them where just anybody could find them."

"That makes sense," Lauden agreed with a nod. "If they're not by the giraffe pen, perhaps I could check…"

Frank Lauden never finished his sentence. Mike Van Portman had slipped around behind him and promptly hit him over the head with the butt of his revolver. "Sorry Frank, but our twenty minutes is almost up and I still have to get out of here." Lauden slumped forward, stunned and groaning, while Van Portman removed the pair of handcuffs from his belt and clipped one side of the handcuffs around the security officer's left wrist. Then he dragged a noticeably groggy Lauden toward the fountain and clipped the other loop to the safety railing. "I _better_ get my diamonds back Frank," he declared sternly, "or there's going to be hell to pay."

One final time Van Portmann retreated back to Petersen's body. He leaned over and dropped the revolver next to the body, then ruffled around in the dead man's trousers until he found a wallet. From this he retrieved the security guard's access card. Pausing just long enough to snug the gloves on each hand, he turned and sprinted hurriedly toward the main gate. Old Ed Mertz would be calling to check on his employees soon, and when he didn't get a prompt response he would almost certainly investigate. The authorities were sure to follow soon after.


	3. The Language Of Forensics

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**The Language Of Forensics**

* * *

><p><em>Friday morning, 2:46 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>After being admitted by Ed Mertz through the main vehicle gate, Paul MacReynolds drove his silver Lexus SUV past the fence and into the main Administrative parking lot on the west side of the main office complex. A half dozen police cruisers and an ambulance were scattered throughout the mostly empty parking area with their doors hanging wide open and red, white and blue lights flashing brilliantly in the darkness of the night. Another vehicle that looked like a second ambulance sat dark and empty near the building entrance. Squinting in the dim lighting, MacReynolds could see the word "Coroner" written in bold black lettering on its rear doors. He felt his heart leap into his throat, wondering suddenly just what in the world was going on at the zoo these days.<p>

Nervously MacReynolds wheeled his vehicle around two of the police cars and – glancing ahead – was forced to brake much more sharply than he had expected. After dynamiting the brakes, he swore softly for several seconds and then pulled sharply right on the steering wheel, accelerating much more slowly this time. Picking out a random empty space, he pulled the Lexus in smoothly between the yellow lines and shifted the automatic transmission into parking mode. Shaking sleep out of his eyes, he took several deep breaths to prepare himself for what was bound to be a stressful situation before stepping out of the vehicle. His hands automatically reached to adjust the necktie he had hastily slipped on, tightening its knot while simultaneously working out its kinks. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he remembered suddenly as the evening breeze chilled him that he had forgotten to put on a jacket.

MacReynolds was angry with what he had seen so far, and yet he felt a great deal of his ire fade upon noticing the deadly serious expressions on the faces of two patrol officers standing on either side of the rear entrance to the Security building. Both of them waited vigilantly and patiently at the top of the stairs, quietly surveying the area. Their job was obviously to make certain that no unauthorized person crossed the yellow police tape crisscrossing the open doorway, and he could tell just by sizing them up briefly that they were not willing to tolerate any trouble. All of the small building's windows were brightly illuminated, and through them he could see the silhouettes of people inside moving slowly back and forth. Most of the faces were strangers and unrecognizable for the most part. The sight of so many non-zoo visitors triggered a sudden burst of apprehension in his chest.

"Do you have identification sir?" asked one of the police officers on watch duty as soon as MacReynolds strode briskly up the short staircase. He nodded and pulled out his zoo identification and security card. The patrolman who had spoken examined the ID carefully, choosing to ignore the access card. "The Lieutenant is waiting for you inside," stated the officer finally, handing back both forms of ID. "He has a few questions to ask."

The first thing Paul MacReynolds did upon entering the security building was to track down old Ed Mertz. The elderly, head of the zoo's security team was softly speaking with a man in civilian clothing and glanced up immediately upon recognizing the sudden appearance of the Los Angeles Zoo's chief administrator. "Sergeant Burke, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Paul MacReynolds, our zoo CEO," stated Mertz professionally. Burke nodded curtly and held out his hand, which MacReynolds promptly accepted and shook firmly.

"What's going on?" asked MacReynolds curiously, his eyes roving wildly about in an attempt to take in everything happening in the small office area. The aroma of hot coffee tempted him, and he made a mental note to track down a cup as soon as possible. "I was told by phone that someone was _killed_ here this morning…" He trailed off in disbelief, trying to wrap his still sluggish, sleepy thoughts around the concept. _Someone was dead? This was a ZOO, for crying out loud_…

"Yes," nodded Sergeant Burke. He turned slightly and pointed toward the far side of the room, where an Emergency Medical Technician from the ambulance was busy applying a cold pack to the back of Frank Lauden's head. "Devon Petersen is officially deceased. And I would point out that you almost lost _two_ of your security people, but one of them was extremely lucky." Burke was a tall, gray-haired man with a commanding stare and an athlete's build. His sharp, piercing blue eyes caught MacReynolds' attention and focused it with crystal clarity. "Both Frank Lauden and Devon Petersen were pistol whipped by an unknown intruder – Petersen so savagely that he didn't survive. Our forensics team is still out by the fountain examining his body."

"Simply unbelievable." MacReynolds' mind whirled with a sudden burst irrational thoughts as he tried to mentally decide just who would attack his guards. _And WHY would they do such a thing?_ He mentally pushed the cloud of activity inside his brain aside and simply shook his head, shifting his gaze to focus on the concerned face of his head of security. 'Mr. Mertz, why did you let a _civilian_ in here?" he asked suddenly, in a razor-sharp tone of voice. His earlier anger threatened to rise anew. "There's a beat up old vehicle in _my_ parking spot out there." He pointed toward the rear exit. "What possible reason could there be for admitting it into the zoo during all of this? That better not be someone from the press…"

Old Ed opened his mouth to respond, but an unexpected voice cut him off.

"Oh, I'm afraid that that would be _me_, sir," said someone from behind MacReynolds. The zoo director turned sharply, noticing a dark-haired man with brown curls and a medium build walking toward him. The newcomer wore a clean print shirt with a loose necktie framed by an old, wrinkled raincoat. "I'm Lieutenant Columbo, a detective with the LAPD," stated the man informatively, his voice and overall demeanor surprisingly likeable. He too held out a hand and smiled through a face full of wrinkles. His warm manner and sparkling brown eyes reassured the CEO somewhat, and MacReynolds felt himself relaxing slightly in response.

"Welcome to the Los Angeles Zoo, Lieutenant," replied MacReynolds, shaking the Lieutenant's hand in response. "I like police officers, and regret that we must meet under these circumstances…'

"Me too, sir. Me too," Columbo nodded with a wry smile. "Unfortunately the nature of my job rarely allows me to meet new people unless something tragic has occurred. All I have to do is mention the word _homicide_ and people naturally begin to get nervous."

MacReynolds himself became unexpectedly anxious upon hearing the word, but he kept both his expression and emotions calm while forcing himself to settle down. True, he _was_ in charge of the Zoo and thereby ultimately responsible for the property, assets and all of its employees, but he reminded himself that he personally had done nothing wrong. Nevertheless, it was extremely unnerving for him as he watched Columbo so obviously and meticulously studying _his_ reaction. The detective was apparently very good at sizing people up. His mind still racing, MacReynolds decided to change the subject, at least for the moment. "That's _your_ car out there in my spot?" he asked, truly astonished that a police Lieutenant would choose to drive such a vehicle. "It looks very _old_."

"It _is_ old, Mr. MacReynolds. It's a French make… a Peugeot," chuckled the detective with more than a little amusement, pronouncing the word 'POOH-jo'. "There are only a few of them left, and I've got one of them." He jerked a thumb at himself, but his proud smile faded slightly while he sipped coffee from a white foam cup. MacReynolds was unable to hide his reaction this time, and Columbo immediately picked up on the change in his expression. "Sergeant Burke."

"Yes Lieutenant," replied the detective's colleague.

"Mr. MacReynolds looks a bit shaken, and we've definitely gotten him out of bed at an early hour. Would you do me a favor and get him a cup of coffee?"

"Of course Lieutenant."

Burke turned to head into the small conference room where old Ed kept the coffee maker, but Columbo stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. He held out his own now empty cup. "And would you please refill _mine_ while you're at it?"

"Certainly Lieutenant."

Burke smiled despite himself, by now completely used to the detective's odd, eccentric behavior after years of serving alongside him. He knew that much of his colleague's manner was deliberately designed to get under people's skin; in other words to put a little subtle pressure on them. Most people had at least some kind of conscience, so the act of murder was a shock at first to those who were guilty. Over time, however, it was statistically proven that the vast majority of killers would suffer from increasing anxiety, particularly when they were in the presence of police officers or anyone connected with the crime. After the first few hours, those who intended to cover up their guilt would say and do nearly anything to keep the truth from coming out… sometimes even kill again. Columbo had been doing his 'detective thing' for more than four decades, enough time for his initially deliberate behavior to become almost innate.

"What exactly happened here?" wondered a curious Paul MacReynolds. "_Why_ did Petersen die?"

Columbo responded first with a pause, chomping on a cigar stump while deep in thought. "We don't totally know yet," admitted the detective finally. "Someone from outside the zoo got in and we're still busy with our investigation. But it looks like one of your guards _let_ him in and got killed for his trouble."

Holding up a cautioning finger, MacReynolds' face grew wary. "There's _no_ smoking in here Lieutenant," he stated brusquely. "No exceptions."

"Oh, I'm used to that by now," chuckled Columbo amiably. "Mrs. Columbo keeps pressuring me to quit… mostly I just chew on the things nowadays." He waved a hand toward the entrance on the opposite side of the room. "Why don't we go outside and I'll show you what we've found."

As they walked, the zoo administrator noticed the Medic still working to bandage the back of Frank Lauden's head. "Are you all right Frank?" he asked with more than a little concern.

The security guard wore a haggard, fatigued expression. "For now," he grumbled softly. "Been better."

"I'm glad you're okay," said MacReynolds pointedly. A sudden thought struck him and his face paled in response. "Am I going to have to call _Mrs_. Petersen?" he asked with horror. "She and his daughter are going to be absolutely _devastated_ by this…"

Columbo removed the cigar and shook his head negatively. "Oh, I really think you better let us handle that sir," he suggested firmly but reassuringly. "Unfortunately, _that_ is another one of those unpleasant duties that goes with my job." A smile returned to his face as Sergeant Burke returned and handed both of them foam cups of coffee. MacReynolds sipped at the hot liquid, but Columbo drank from his cup as though the contents were room temperature. "I'll probably wait until later in the morning to visit the family," he continued as the two of them resumed their walk toward the security building's front entrance. "That way we won't add to the trauma by disturbing them in the middle of the night."

"Thank you very much for that," acknowledged MacReynolds. "I must tell you, Lieuteant, I don't envy you your job much based on what I've seen so far."

"I know, I know, I hear things like that all the time," Columbo agreed wryly. "If I could change the world, all crimes would be committed between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Unfortunately that's not the way things usually work out."

Together, the two of them exited the building and stepped outdoors using the same doorway that Devon Petersen had used only two hours earlier.

* * *

><p><em>Friday morning, 2:55 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>"How's it going Joe?" asked Columbo inquisitively as he approached the body of the dead man. Kneeling next to the body, a tall, balding man in a white coat glanced up in response.<p>

"The photographers have finished," replied the Coroner gruffly. "I'm nearly done," he continued, easing Petersen's head off the walking path just long enough to get a better look at the left temple. "I can safely say with assurance that the victim knew his attacker." Around them the photographers and other members of Columbo's investigative team were still busily working, photographing the walking path, the fountain, trees, grass and any other parts of the surrounding area that appeared to be of interest.

"How do you determine specifics like that by examining a body?" asked a curious Paul MacReynolds.

Joe Wilson glanced first to Columbo. The Lieutenant nodded with approval and waved a hand to indicate that the Coroner could continue discussing police matters in front of a civilian. "Well, we found him lying face down," noted Wilson. He lowered Petersen's head slowly until it rested on the dirt-covered surface of the walking path. "Preliminary analysis shows two wounds, similar to the one we treated on Frank Lauden. One of them is on the left side of his head near the temple area, indicating that he was facing his attacker when the first blow landed. The second, fatal blow, landed here, near the base of his skull." He extended the index finger of his right hand to point toward the wound. A large pool of blood had drained from it and stained the ground below, along with the back of Petersen's shirt.

"If the blow to the back of the head had been _first_, the body would not be lying face down," added Columbo. He took out a match and lit the stub of his cigar, taking immediate note of MacReynold's frowning, disapproving expression. "It's just for a few minutes sir," he promised, blowing out a cloud of smoke while he waited for the flame to take. "A cigar helps me concentrate when I'm examining a crime scene, _especially_ when it's still this early in the morning."

Deciding to ignore the glowing point of light at the end of the Lieutenant's cigar, MacReynold's attention returned to the matter at hand. "The body could have been _moved_," he interjected. "How can you tell he wasn't killed elsewhere and then left at this spot?"

"Because that would have left plenty of markings here on the walking path," declared Columbo emphatically. "It's hard to tell in the darkness, with all of my guys with lights moving around elsewhere." Turning toward one of the Coroner's assistants, he accepted a flashlight and focused its beam on the dirty surface surrounding Petersen's body. After a brief pause, he moved it slowly along the path in the general direction of Eucalyptus Grove. "There are footprints from three different people on this path, even if they're tough to see," he continued informatively.

MacReynolds was not convinced. "Dozens of people walk this path every day… sometimes _hundreds_."

"Ah yes, but your maintenance crew tends the path as soon as the zoo closes each day. They have equipment to smooth the dirt and keep the grassy airs trimmed and neat looking." The detective removed the cigar and breathed out another cloud of smoke, watching the breeze causing it to swirl in the soft glow from the flashlight.

"Yes, I guess that's true."

"Therefore – since the crime took place after the maintenance crew left – we would know, simply by analyzing the footprints as well as the bleeding, if the body had been moved. No," mused Columbo with virtual certainty, "I believe that Mr. Petersen was hit first from the front, and then again from behind. He's lying where he fell after the _second_ blow killed him."

Wilson nodded in full agreement. "There are also no signs of defensive wounds on this man," he stated. "If he had encountered a total stranger and then fought for his life, there would be bruises and scratches… something identifiable on his arms, at minimum. I've checked everything… there's no skin or other bio material under his fingernails, no bruising on the torso or the legs." Sighing heavily, he glanced down at the security officer still lying face down. "I'd like to get him out of here as soon as possible, if that's okay."

"Go ahead," suggested Columbo with a warm smile. "If the photographers are done and you're satisfied that you've checked everything you can here, take him downtown. Get to work with the boys in the lab."

Both assistants stepped forward once Wilson gestured for them to proceed. They lowered a stretcher to the ground, and then all three men carefully rolled the body carefully onto it. One of the Med Techs pulled the sides of a body bag up and around the corpse, while the other carefully zipped it closed. Each of them took an end, lifted the stretcher into the air and proceeded to head back toward the south end of the main office complex. There was a grassy area running between the Administrative building and Security that would allow them easy access to their van in the parking lot.

"All right. Your explanation does make sense to me," admitted MacReynolds reluctantly, studying Columbo's shadowy features through a cloud of acrid cigar smoke that floated between them. "What do you need from me and the zoo personnel?"

"Prepare your staff for a possible delay in opening the zoo this morning," the detective suggested, still puffing on the cigar. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and then began slapping the pockets of his raincoat in search of something to write with. "Do you have a pencil, sir?" he asked curiously.

"I have a _pen_, Lieutenant," snapped MacReynolds in response, realizing suddenly that he was still a little shaken by the sight of an actual dead body. _Not just a corpse mind you, but someone he had seen regularly and occasionally spoken to_. He pulled a modern looking ballpoint pen with the Los Angeles Zoo logo printed along its side and handed it to the other man. "I'm hoping that any delay will be minimal… Fridays and the weekend are usually very busy, profitable days for us and it would be extremely bad PR if we have to turn people away because there is a visible police presence here investigating a violent crime."

"Oh, don't worry too much sir," Columbo responded immediately. "Our clean up team is pretty good at what they do. I just want you to be _prepared_ for a delay in case we find something else relevant. No… we've pretty much surveyed the entire area already and will probably be finished soon." He paused for a moment as a thought unexpectedly struck him. "I would, however, like to leave a couple of men behind until daylight arrives. They won't interfere with any of your employees or what they're doing, and I expect that they'll be finished before you open at 7:30. I'd just like them to take some more photographs after the sun comes up. It will help prevent us from overlooking any details and maybe get some better shots of the outdoors… that kind of thing." He waved a hand casually. "Our cameras are adjustable for night use, but I've discovered over the years that things tend to look a bit differently during the daylight, especially footprints. Some of them can be really tough to spot in the dark."

"Of course Lieutenant. Please let me know if I can assist you with anything else."

Turning on his heel, MacReynolds strode briskly south, back in the direction of the Security office. He was quite anxious to speak with Ed Mertz and Frank Lauden. In another few hours, the daytime security team would be arriving, and they would have to be briefed prior to beginning their day. MacReynolds' mind began racing – he would have to brief at least _some_ of the Administrative staff too, but not too many of them. It was inevitable that the press would soon get wind of the crime, if they hadn't already. He was very much hoping to avoid having the story appear in the morning papers; that would probably be best for now. It would give his team time to prepare and issue a proper statement.

Columbo remained behind and continued smoking his cigar for another few minutes with his eyes fixed firmly on the area around the dark blood stains on the walking path. He continued to wave the flashlight slowly back and forth, studying all of the marks carefully while re-enacting the earlier events in his mind. More smoke rose in a cloud around his head as he focused the light on the footprints clearly visible in the dirt. Joe Wilson's personnel were trained experts; they had disturbed very little during their work. Behind him, the square shouldered form of Sergeant Burke appeared out of the darkness.

"How is it going Lieutenant?"

"Pretty good. Did you check the computer system like I asked you to?"

Burke nodded. "I did." He smiled wanly, with little emotion. Everyone who worked in homicide dealt with the constant companion of death a little differently… Burke tended to lock himself into his professional mode. "The security log shows that the main gate was opened at 1:33 a.m. The code on Petersen's card is listed as the source of the access request."

With police work, the obvious was almost never the end of a discussion. "_And?_" Columbo's eyebrows perked up as he waited for the next proverbial shoe to drop.

"I also checked the executable file that updates the log file," continued Burke calmly. "The operating system shows that it was last accessed at _12:55_ a.m." The police Sergeant chuckled and shook his head. "You were right," he acknowledged with a nod. "How did you know that someone changed the log?"

"Walk with me, Sergeant Burke," responded Columbo, waving the man enthusiastically forward. They moved northwest, leaving the fountain area behind. The pair of officers passed through a rocky outcropping surrounded by large clusters of trees, exotic bushes and grass. In front of them the walking path curved northward again, and they crossed over it to reach the intended destination… Eucalyptus Grove. Through the pervasive darkness, they could see a large cluster of the zoo's famous aromatic trees. Around them, more members of the investigative unit continued to rove back and forth, continuing to take pictures and plastic bag anything that remotely resembled a piece of evidence.

"Okay," said Burke with mild amusement. "More trees."

Columbo responded by shining his flashlight downward, toward the grassy area in front of the tree line.

"Okay," Burke commented a second time. "More footprints."

"These are _special_ footprints," insisted Columbo with an enthusiastic smile, directing the flashlight he still held directly toward the center of the area containing foot marks. He reached down toward a bare spot on the ground and stubbed out his cigar. Then he stood up and looked at it, unwilling to simply toss it aside. Shrugging his shoulders, the detective shoved the remaining stub of the cigar into the right pocket of his raincoat. "Notice the shapes," he suggested calmly, stroking his clean shaven jaw slowly. "They tell us a great deal about what actually took place here this morning."

"There are two sets," commented Burke while studying the imprints. "Two men were facing each other. Judging by the depth where they stood longest, both were here for some time, probably talking, before moving out onto the path. A third man came from the south and joined them on the walking path and then the three of them moved together back toward the fountain."

"And…?"

Inhaling deeply, Burke continued studying the footprints. "I don't follow…"

Throwing up both hands, Columbo laughed loudly. "The answer to the puzzle is right _here_," he insisted firmly. "The evidence at _this_ site is precisely _why_ I asked you to check the computer logs. I wanted to verify the statement you got earlier from one of our witnesses." He paused for a moment to allow Burke time to think. "_You're_ going to have to take over for me soon, Sergeant," he reminded his colleague. "I'm going to _retire_ in another year or two."

"You've been promising to retire for ten years, minimum," growled Burke roughly with an amused chuckle. "What would you do with all of your time? Join a bowling team? Take Mrs. Columbo to a bunch of cocktail parties?" The Lieutenant refused to take the bait and ignored his jabs, continuing to wait silently for the Sergeant to reason things out. "Okay," said Burke as he grew suddenly serious and studied the ground more closely. "One of the two men who stood in the grove had square-toed shoes." He pointed toward the left edge of Columbo's flashlight glow. "You can see the rectangular edge where the imprint is deeper… where he stood for a lot longer."

"Absolutely _correct!_" roared Columbo with approval. "During his statement, Frank Lauden told us that he had no idea how the intruder got into the park, that Petersen must have let him in. He said that he got hit over the head first, _before_ Petersen was murdered, and was then handcuffed to the fence surrounding the fountain. According to him, he never saw the face of his attacker. But this evidence clearly contradicts that statement, since Lauden is the only one of the three with square toed shoes. I checked several times already, and both Petersen and his mysterious attacker had toes with rounded tips."

"Maybe the two guards stood here."

"Unlikely," ventured Columbo. "Petersen has small feet… about a 9 or 9 ½. I noticed while checking the body. The third set of prints here in the trees is from someone with a much larger size… maybe a 13 or 15."

The only remaining conclusion dawned on Burke. "So _Lauden_ met with the attacker… _here_," he decided with fresh awareness. "He was lying to us about not being involved."

"Exactly." Columbo nodded with certainty. "Even worse, he went back into the Security office and _changed_ the computer log to make it look like Petersen was the man who let the intruder into the zoo."

"That makes sense," agreed the Sergeant. "The executable used by the computer's security system was accessed for an update entry at 12:55 a.m. That's when Lauden must have used his own card to let our mysterious killer inside the main gate."

"And then he went _back_ and _changed_ the log entry to throw suspicion onto the dead man," Columbo continued. "Chief Mertz told us that Lauden initially called Petersen out here, at some point after 1:00 a.m. because he thought he 'heard something'. I submit to you, sir, that the killer was already _inside_ the zoo when that happened. Lauden was talking with him right here in this grove, and for some unknown reason they decided to call Petersen out here. The dead man didn't accidentally stumble upon the conversation. No, no… Mertz reported that Lauden used his walkie talkie to _request_ that Petersen join him. So our victim did just that, and at some point one or both of the other two decided to kill him."

"Based on the brutality of the beating, I would think the killing was motivated primarily by anger," pointed out Burke. "If you've got a loaded .38 in your hand, why not simply shoot him?"

"That would make too much _noise_," Columbo responded bluntly. "But I agree with you that anger was involved. No one hits someone that hard – hard enough to kill him with only two blows – unless he's really, really trying."

The two of them stood there for several minutes, each of them running the suggested chain of events through their minds while searching for flaws in the analysis. "Do you want me to bring Lauden in for questioning?" wondered the Sergeant idly. "At minimum, we have enough preliminary evidence to hold him as an accessory. Obstruction of justice…" He trailed off, watching the detective's reaction.

"I was considering that myself," admitted the Lieutenant. "However, take a step back and think about the big picture for a second, Sergeant. We still have no idea what in the world was going on tonight. _Why_ was the intruder here? If you were angry and wanted to confront and possibly kill someone, _why_ would you sneak inside a public zoo at night and do it? Wouldn't it be easier to just confront him elsewhere… at his home for instance?"

Burke considered the detective's words carefully. "You think all three of them were working together?"

"Working together on _what?_" asked Columbo with a confident grin. "That is the unanswered question of the morning so far. And if we grab Lauden and take him downtown, whoever is linked to him might simply disappear. We may get a confession out of Lauden, but then… well, we can always get a confession out of him in a couple of weeks too. In the meantime we can keep an eye on him, see where he goes and who he talks to." Burke could tell that the Lieutenant's mind was already made up. "I'm telling you Sergeant that this is something bigger than just one murder. Someone went to the trouble of placing at least two men on this zoo's security team. How do we know whether or not more people are involved?"

"Agreed. If many are involved, Lauden may only know the person he met."

"Right. If we leave him free, we can also monitor Mr. Lauden's activities here in the zoo. Something about _this_ place drew those men together here tonight, and I want to know exactly what that something was."

"Right," nodded Burke, comprehending Columbo's meaning instantly. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped it open. "I'll make arrangements to have our undercover people assigned to begin visiting the zoo during regular hours on a rotating basis. Do you have anything specific for them to watch for?"

The Lieutenant stared at the open cell phone and its brilliantly lit display for a moment. Then he got a sudden, shocked look on his face and slapped his forehead with the palm of one hand. "I've got an _idea_ Sergeant," he declared suddenly, smiling despite the seriousness of the situation. "In fact, I've got a really _great_ idea." He motioned toward the phone. "May I borrow that for a moment?"

"Certainly." Burke handed over his cell unit and watched the Lieutenant fumble with it for a moment, before finally chuckling. "Would you like some help?" he asked, deciding to rescue an obviously stymied Columbo from modern technology.

The response was a look of pure desperation. "Please."

"What's the number you're interested in?" queried Burke.

"555-1407."

Punching the number into the small phone took only an instant. After pressing the 'send' button, Burke handed the phone back to the Lieutenant. "It's 3:00 a.m. in the morning, you know," he pointed out.

Columbo held up his left hand and turned partially away from his colleague, waiting for the person on the other end to answer. There was a brief pause before Burke could clearly hear, in the chill stillness of the morning air, the deep, gravelly voice of an adult male answering the call.

"_Ehrmm… hello?_" The electronically distorted transmission was clearly audible, even from Burke's position several feet away.

"Hello!" said Columbo enthusiastically. "Is this Captain Leland Stottlemeyer?"

Another pause. "_That depends… it's 3:04 in the morning. Who's asking?_"

"It's Lieutenant Columbo, sir."

The voice perked up instantly. "_Columbo! What in the world can I do for YOU so early on a Friday?_"

Burke watched the Lieutenant's smile widen further. "I was wondering, Captain, if you're still planning on driving down here to L.A. for the ballistics conference this weekend."

"_I am. My suitcase and shaving kit are both at the foot of the bed, fully packed_."

"Well, we have a very unusual situation taking place here in our local zoo," stated Columbo informatively. "We could really use some strangers to pose as tourists for at least a few days. And I have to tell you, Mrs. Columbo has read all kinds of articles about the crazy, unique cases that you and Adrian Monk regularly solve. I've heard about all of your big cases and must confess that I've been anxious to meet Mr. Monk for some time now. Do you think that he would possibly consider coming with you? If nothing else, my team would really appreciate another, objective point of view regarding a murder that took place tonight."

"_I can ask him, but I should warn you he REALLY doesn't like to travel_."

"Would you please ask him?" Columbo nodded with obvious approval in Burke's direction.

"_I'll call him as soon as I hang up_."

"It's 3:00 a.m. sir. Do you really need to wake him in the middle of the night?"

"_Yes I do_." Stottlemeyer paused, knowing all too well what was about to happen. "_You woke me up, after all. And if he accepts I figure that it will take him at least six or seven hours to pack_."


	4. A Gift, A Curse & An Empty Briefcase

_**Author's Notes:** June 23, 2011: Rest in peace, Peter Falk! This story is dedicated to you and your family... thanks for all the Columbo memories and for being the voice that told the tale of "The Princess Bride"._

_You will be missed, sir!_

* * *

><p><strong>Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo<strong>

**A Gift, A Curse & An Empty Briefcase**

* * *

><p><em>Friday evening, 5:46 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>With the ease of a trained professional driver, Captain Leland Stottlemeyer eased his brand new red 2011 Dodge Charger toward an exit leading to the nearby I-5 freeway. In only minutes – if the current light traffic conditions held – their progress would bring them very close to Griffith Park and the main entrance of the Los Angeles Zoo. Seated to his immediate right, Chief Randy Disher from the Summit, NJ police force flashed his boyish grin. "I didn't realize you knew your way around L.A. so well," he commented idly and making conversation. He gestured toward the road in front of them. "Watch for the Ventura junction. That's the easiest approach from this direction."<p>

"Oh, I've been down here a few times for conferences on several topics," replied Stottlemeyer with a gruff chuckle. "So I know my way around, more or less. This was supposed to be the first ballistics conference in quite some time… very little changes over the years as long as we keep up to date with the new weaponry. But now, unless something changes drastically, it looks as though we'll be missing both days." He shrugged his broad shoulders with mild disinterest at the prospect of missing the event. "I'm really glad you decided to change your plans Randy… at least temporarily we've got our old team back together."

Disher continued to smile with obvious enthusiasm. "All I had to do was have my secretary change the hotel registration," he pointed out. "She was able to cancel the first reservation, switch hotels and book a room on the same floor as yours. After that, a simple east coast/west coast airplane trip was all that was needed to bring us all back together." He glanced at the three people seated behind him. "How are you guys doing back there?"

"We're doing fine, thank you very much," replied the always plucky, blonde-haired Natalie Teeger with a smirk that wrinkled her cute nose. She was seated directly behind Disher. Adrian Monk was behind Stottlemeyer, his dark, curly-haired head lolling back on the seat as he issued a series of occasional, intermittent snores. Between the two of them sat an uncomfortable Julie Teeger, Natalie's daughter. The attractive college student was the only one who appeared, for the most part, to be uncomfortable.

"I can't see _anything_ Mom," protested Julie glumly. She was trying to watch all the sights go by, but from her center seat in the rear of the Charger, her repeated attempts to survey the surrounding scenery were proving to be a difficult challenge. "I _told_ you earlier that _you_ should have sat next to Mr. Monk."

"He has a tendency to get grumpy with me when we travel," Natalie noted with a small smile. "However, it's never too late for a woman to change her mind." She motioned toward Julie with both hands. "Seat belts off, and let's switch," she suggested, releasing the shoulder harness that bound her firmly to the rear seat. "But be careful… I don't want to wake Mr. Monk. I've never seen him so relaxed and quiet on a road trip before. We don't want to ruin a really positive experience for him."

"I don't think I've ever seeing him relax _period_," countered Disher, peering curiously between the front seat headrests while studying the slumbering detective. "At least, not for this length of time, anyway." His eyes lifted to meet Natalie's. "Did you sedate him?"

Natalie rose from her seat just far enough to allow Julie to squeeze underneath her. Julie's long auburn hair followed her in a flurrying wave toward the window seat. "No, I didn't give him drugs!" insisted Natalie in a soft, reduced tone of voice. "You moved away from us too quickly, Randy. Mr. Monk has changed a lot since you left for your new job."

Scratching his cleanly shaven chin with interest, Disher continued observing Monk. "Is he like the old version… the one that served on the force for all those years?"

"Not quite," grunted Stottlemeyer with mild amusement, listening to their banter while he continued his driving duties. "Monk remains primarily enthusiastic and revved up about life… he's enjoying his discovery of Molly but still missing Trudy." The burly police Captain shook his head firmly. "If someone a few years back would have predicted this, I never would have believed it. But I have to admit that right now Monk is as close to normal as I've ever seen him."

"And the best part is, that none of it seems to have affected his super powers," grinned Natalie while watching Julie sight see. "We've solved a lot of cases without you Randy."

"I know. The Captain sends me all of the related clippings from the newspapers," admitted Disher. "I've run into a few cases of my own that were baffling… on several occasions I was tempted to ask you guys to come visit me in New Jersey." He glanced at his old friend behind the steering wheel. "Did you get all the theories I E-mailed to you regarding _your_ cases?"

"I did," said Stottlemeyer somewhat tersely.

"And…?" Disher looked expectantly at him.

"And… we, ehrm, tossed… uhm, included them along with all our other ideas and brainstormed our way to the eventual solution to each puzzle."

A very pleased Randy Disher folded his arms in front of him. "So they helped?"

Stottlemeyer was silent for a moment. "I can definitely say," he began finally while choosing each word cautiously, "that your suggestions played a small role in our decision-making process." He stared uncomfortably forward, out the windshield and toward the freeway stripes passing swiftly by the vehicle.

"I'm going to keep sending them," declared Disher confidently. "It makes me feel like I'm still part of the team… like you guys aren't so far away."

"Randy, I'm sure you know by now that you'll _always_ be a part of our team," said Stottlemeyer. He removed his right hand from the steering wheel long enough to point an index finger at his friend. "But keep in mind; _you're_ the guy who came up with that 'Opposite Killer' idea. Remember that case… the one where you theorized that the opposite of a spider was a tall building?" The Captain shook his head back and forth while guffawing loudly. "I have to tell you, Randy… there are _still_ people who bring that one up now and then back at the station, and it's not because they're remembering you favorably."

"It was just a theory," Disher decided, blushing slightly at the embarrassing memory. "So what made you decide to come along Julie?" he asked curiously, trying desperately to change the subject. "Somehow, it doesn't seem like ballistics or detective work would be your kind of thing."

"No, but I love animals and want to go to the zoo," responded Julie immediately. "Plus the Captain wants Mom and me to be your undercover team while the rest of you work with the LAPD."

"Undercover team?"

Stottlemeyer nodded in full agreement. "Lieutenant Columbo thinks that there may be multiple employees on the zoo staff who are running their own agenda for purposes unknown. He believes the death that I told you about is only the tip of the iceberg."

"So," continued Natalie, leaning her head against Monk's shoulder and flashing her brilliant smile, "Since we have a new and semi-independent Mr. Monk on our hands, Julie and I are going to walk around the zoo and pose as tourists. We'll watch for signs of suspicious activity from the zoo staff or any of the visitors while the rest of you conduct your official investigation."

"Ah," acknowledged Disher. "That sounds like a plan."

Stottlemeyer resisted the urge to tease his old friend and failed to restrain himself. "We're all set unless the 'Opposite Killer' shows up," he commented with a light chuckle.

Again Disher reacted by blushing and immediately trying to change the subject. "So Monk's really a different guy these days, huh?" he asked curiously, sizing the sleeping detective up. "You could never tell just by looking at him. He looks just like my friend from the good old days."

Natalie flashed him an incredulous expression. "Are you _serious?_" she responded with more than a little astonishment. She waved a hand up and down along Monk's chest area. "Just _look_ at him," she insisted, watching Disher's reaction carefully. "You're supposed to be observant… a law enforcement officer. Are you telling me that you really can't see the difference?"

"He looks a lot more relaxed," ventured Disher cautiously. "But that could be because he's asleep."

"Yes. Sleeping. Mr. Monk is sleeping… I'm glad you noticed that. When has Mr. Monk gone anywhere and _slept_ most of the way? Randy, _look_ very closely at this man," Natalie ordered emphatically. "He actually dressed casual for a vacation. No dress slacks, no jacket or tie. All he's wearing are cotton dockers, a polo shirt and a sweater vest."

"Now that you mention it, he _does_ look different," Disher admitted. "Maybe he'll have a good time."

"I'm hoping Mr. Monk has a _great_ time," nodded Natalie enthusiastically. "Right now shirts 1 through 7 are in temporary storage, along with his matching jackets. I'd like to see them stay there permanently."

Cautiously Monk opened one eye long enough to size up the situation. "You should know, I've been awake for some time now and can hear you guys talking about me," he informed them.

"I'm glad that you're awake," replied Natalie, flashing a warm smile. "Did you have a nice rest?"

"Sort of." Monk's expression was a curious mixture of puzzlement and frustration. "But I've got a bad feeling all of a sudden. I think we're going to have to go back to the hotel," he decided, looking up into her clear blue eyes. "I forgot something important."

From his position in the driver's seat, Stottlemeyer snorted loudly. "Yeah, right Monk," he chuckled in his usual, gravelly tone of voice. "We're already running a few minutes behind schedule, but we'll turn around and go back anyway." He laughed again. "I wouldn't count on that happening any time soon."

"But we _have_ to go back," protested the detective insistently. "I had the lady at the front desk send up all kinds of things to help me during my stay, but I forgot to ask for a dustbuster."

Natalie's eyes widened with astonishment, and her smile turned into a frown of disapproval. "A _dustbuster?_ That's what you would label as something _important?_"

"Yes," nodded Monk. "I noticed that the edges of my room were extremely dusty. I don't think the staff cleans them regularly, so I'm going to do it first thing when we get back."

"Mr. Monk, we're staying at a _five_ star hotel… the whole place is _immaculate!_"

"_Except_ for the edges of my room… they're dusty."

Natalie Teeger folded her arms defiantly in front of her and sat staring straight ahead. Her growing frustration was blatantly obvious. "I saw your room after Julie and I dropped our luggage in our own room across the hall," she reminded him. "You had a steam iron sent up for your shirts, along with a large vacuum cleaner and a fully loaded cleaning cart. Mr. Monk, didn't you _see_ the embarrassment on the faces of those hotel maids? It's a good thing we left, because you were well on your way to driving them _crazy!_"

Julie laughed at the memory. "If you don't trust them to do their jobs, Mr. Monk, they're all going to develop an inferiority complex."

Disher nodded with sudden understanding. "I'm getting it," he decided. "So Monk is a new man on the outside, but inside he's still the same old Monk?"

"The same old Monk needs a dustbuster," Monk repeated firmly, eyeing his former colleague in the front passenger seat. "I need to vacuum the edges of my room when I get back. They're very dusty."

"Why not use the detachable hose on the vacuum they sent up for you to use?" asked Natalie suddenly. "Isn't that what it's for?"

There was a prolonged pause. "Yes," Monk admitted cautiously. "However, there are supposed to be _attachments_ that go with the hose. Most people, especially the employees in a business, tend to lose track of where they keep those. They were suspiciously missing from the supplies that were delivered to my door. So unless I have the dustbuster, I would need the pointy-tipped attachment to hook onto the detachable hose. Only then would I be able to use it to effectively clean the dust from the edges of the carpet." He studied Natalie's expression carefully. "So I'm flexible in this case… I'll need the pointy-tipped attachment that goes with the regular sized vacuum cleaner _or_ a dustbuster."

"Why don't you have Natalie call the front desk with her cell phone and have a dustbuster sent up to your room?" suggested Stottlemeyer, glancing back just long enough to smile in response to the icy stare that Natalie immediately directed his way. Seated next to her mother, Julie rolled her eyes at yet another back and forth fight between the adults while observing yet another argument over nothing materialize so suddenly out of thin air. She resumed her careful watch out the window and focused her attention on the scenery passing by the speeding Dodge Charger, wisely choosing to ignore the current topic of discussion.

"I've been working very hard to settle Mr. Monk down and reduce his compulsive behaviors, so I don't exactly appreciate you _enabling_ him," said a clearly annoyed Natalie to Stottlemeyer. "The dustbuster can wait… he can't use it anyway until we return to the hotel."

There was a longer pause this time… an awkward, uncomfortable silence as everyone held their breath and waited for the next shoe to drop. "Well, if you could make a quick phone call," continued Monk finally, "then the dustbuster would be waiting for me when we get back. I'd really appreciate it and would hate to have to vacuum too late into the night. That tends to draw complaints."

Envisioning the detective following through on that very promise, Natalie exhaled slowly and pulled out her cell phone. "Okay, you win Mr. Monk," she growled a bit irritably at him while holding up the open phone. "This is me using my phone and making a call to the front desk of our hotel. I'm going to have them send up a dustbuster so that you can clean the edges of your room just as soon as we get back."

"Thank you," replied Monk rather politely. "A little thing like that certainly wasn't worth making such a big fuss over, was it?"

From his vantage point in the driver's seat, Stottlemeyer continued to chuckle softly.

* * *

><p><em>Friday evening, 6:01 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Less than twenty minutes later, Stottlemeyer flashed his badge toward Frank Lauden at the Los Angeles Zoo's vehicle entrance. The tall, muscular guard nodded in response and used his access card to open the gate leading into the main vehicle parking lot. The LAPD appeared almost to have vanished completely after the earlier, morning activity. There was only one black and white patrol cruiser parked amongst the dozens of multi-colored staff cars. Once Lauden finished opening the entrance leading past the outer, chain-link fence, the Captain eased the red Dodge into the parking lot. He picked out a spot near the main entrance, noticing that many employees had already left for the day.<p>

"They close at 5:30 p.m. on weekdays and 6:30 p.m. on weekends," Disher commented informatively, holding up a multi-colored pamphlet. "I picked up some documentation at the hotel."

"That's quality thinking there Chief Disher," nodded Stottlemeyer with approval.

Monk had opened his window and pointed out toward the dirty, dented Peugeot still sitting in Paul MacReynolds' VIP slot. "They should pay their CEO more," he decided with mild sarcasm. "Then he could afford to drive something other than a wreck."

"That's a vintage 1959 French Peugeot 403," replied Stottlemeyer with a wide grin. "It's a classic and probably worth a lot of dough."

"Yeah, that's probably what the salesman told the owner," scoffed Monk. "Honest sir. It's a collector's item… that'll be two thousand dollars for the heap, please." He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

"I believe Lieutenant Columbo drives that car," Stottlemeyer pointed out. "At least he did the last time I was down here, and I can't imagine why he would get rid of it after keeping it for more than forty years."

"Interesting. You said this guy was the star of the LAPD," said Monk in response. "So far, I'm not very impressed with what I've seen."

Stottlemeyer coasted the Dodge into an empty parking slot and shifted into 'park'. He also applied the emergency brake, a habit of his that he had been taught as a youngster and never really abandoned.

Natalie made a disapproving 'cluck clucking' sound with her tongue. "You shouldn't judge a man before you know him," she told her friend and employer. "Lieutenant Columbo has solved more than four _hundred_ murder cases. You've only consulted on slightly more than one hundred sixty."

The look of astonishment on Monk's face was priceless. "Four _hundred?_" he gasped in awe. "How…"

"They say he's like a machine," continued Natalie with a smile. "He averages ten successful cases per year, or about a hundred per decade. The Lieutenant keeps promising to retire, but he never follows through."

"Really. How come I've never heard of this guy?" Monk reached up and scratched his curly-haired head. "It sounds like he's been working cases since the Jurassic era."

"Because you never came _back_ to the force!" roared Stottlemeyer with a loud guffaw. "Unless you subscribe to the Los Angeles Times, I wouldn't expect you to have heard of him."

"But he heard about me…"

"Yeah, he did." Stottlemeyer opened the driver's door and stepped out of the Dodge, stretching his long legs and raising his arms to let them relax a bit. He turned and regarded Monk thoughtfully through the open car window. "I have a tendency to brag about you… not to mention your occasional mentions in the national news." The Captain waved a hand aggressively toward his passengers. "Let's get this show on the road," he suggested firmly. "We came all this way and now we're here. So let's go see what's going on."

Julie glanced at the Captain a bit apprehensively as she emerged from the Charger. "There aren't going to be any… bodies… or anything really gross looking, will there?"

Shaking his head negatively, Stottlemeyer threw her a reassuring smile. "All of the forensics work took place before the zoo opened this morning. Columbo's team had everything cleaned up in time for business to proceed as usual. None of the visitors should have noticed anything." He shifted his gaze back to Monk. "I take it you had a chance to review the case file."

"Yes I did." Monk handed over the brown covered folder containing a batch of papers that had been resting beside him on the seat. "That was Frank Lauden who admitted us into the zoo… he's the guy that the Lieutenant believes was an accessory to the murder."

Like Paul MacReynolds before them, the five visitors from San Francisco were required to pass through a checkpoint before entering the main Security building. There was still a uniformed police officer stationed at the rear entrance, and he examined both Stottlemeyer's and Disher's credentials carefully before admitting them. "They're with us," the Captain told the officer upon noticing him glancing suspiciously at Monk, Natalie and Julie.

"The Lieutenant should be inside," responded the officer with an accepting nod. "He wanted to have his people take a closer look at the security software once the zoo officially closed for the day."

The five of them had barely entered the security office before Monk began groaning audibly. "What's wrong?" Disher asked him in a soft whisper.

"It smells in here," growled Monk with a deep frown. "Is this a security office or a late-night poker room?"

"I'm sorry about that," said a newcomer from his right. Monk turned to face the elderly, crinkly faced man who had spoken. The detective studied the elderly Lieutenant closely, sizing him up, his attention eventually settling on the long, equally wrinkled raincoat that the policeman was wearing. Beneath it he had on a shirt that looked equally old along with a thin black, mostly colorless tie. There were a few sprinkles of color to be found in the necktie if one looked closely enough, but it was quite clear at first glance that Lieutenant Columbo was by no means concerned with his fashion sense.

Laughing at the scene, Stottlemeyer shook Columbo's hand and then waved in the general direction of his companions. "Lieutenant Columbo, may I present Adrian Monk, Chief Randy Disher, Natalie Teeger and her daughter Julie. Over the years, we've solved a lot of cases together, although Randy works in Jersey now."

"I'm pleased to meet all of you, and extremely grateful that you agreed to assist us." Columbo held the small stub of a mostly smoked cigar in his left hand and he chomped on it as soon as he finished the sentence. "There are all kinds of things that don't make sense with this one."

Monk couldn't take his eyes off the cigar stub. "Are you planning on smoking that?" he asked cautiously.

"No," chuckled Columbo with amusement. "No, I'm not. I've heard all about your gift Mr. Monk, and fully understand that it only works when you are completely free from life's simple distractions." He continued to speak with the cigar hanging out of his mouth. "I tried to finish it before you got here, but I'm afraid that the air conditioning system in this building isn't the greatest and there's still a lot of smoke hanging around. They say the ventilation in the main office building is much better, but smoking isn't allowed at all over there."

Monk smiled with mild trepidation. "Then can we please work in that building?"

Studying the San Francisco detective curiously, Columbo suddenly laughed with clear amusement. "He's pulling my leg just a little, isn't he?"

"Sort of," said Natalie wryly. "Part of him is joking and part of him isn't."

"Why don't we attend to business first," said Stottlemeyer, attempting valiantly to redirect the conversation back to the matter at hand. "It was a long drive down from San Francisco, and I'm certain the ladies will want to get back to our hotel at a reasonable hour."

"Of course, of course," Columbo agreed instantly. He waved toward an attractive, red-headed female police officer and she immediately made her way through the rows of security display screens and computer workstations. "This is Sergeant Maria Pearson. She's in charge of setting up the undercover operation that we're hoping Ms. Teeger and her daughter can help out with. Sergeant, would you please brief these ladies while the rest of us talk about the murder?"

"Of course Lieutenant." Sergeant Pearson smiled warmly at both Natalie and Julie, waving them over to the other side of the room. "We've got a map of the whole place over here," she told the two of them. "Come with me and we'll finish up our plans for the weekend."

Monk watched them go while continuing to wrinkle his nose at the stale smell of cigar smoke. The Lieutenant's raincoat reeked of it, and he found the acrid smell to be extremely distracting. Gradually, a little at a time, he began easing himself farther and farther away from the spot where Columbo was standing. He actually made it nearly five feet or so before Stottlemeyer shot a dirty look at him.

"All three of us had the opportunity to review the documentation you faxed to my office," Disher noted enthusiastically. "So far, it appears as though you have a body an accomplice but no primary suspect."

"That is partially correct," agreed Columbo. "We've discovered a few minor clues, but other than that nothing very informative. Something valuable was concealed here in the zoo… and I firmly believe that a disagreement over that something _was_ the motive for the killing. Now as to just who on the outside had that motive… well, that's where you are exactly right Chief Disher. So far, we've got nothing to work with." He shrugged and pulled the cigar stub out of his mouth, waving it as the four men continued their discussion.

Monk watched the right hand holding the cigar as though his eyes were physically glued to it. Everywhere the Lieutenant's right hand went, Monk's gaze followed close behind. He was still watching the cigar moving steadily back and forth when Stottlemeyer eased over next to him and swatted him sharply on the right shoulder. "Pay attention, Monk."

Continuing to fill them in on the details of the murder, Columbo strode purposefully over to a small conference room. The aroma of fresh coffee suddenly filled the air, temporarily overpowering the smell of the smoke. Setting on a table in the middle of the room was a dirt-encrusted briefcase. It was open, and all three of the newcomers could immediately see that the interior of the case had been meticulously sliced with a sharp knife. Monk drifted immediately toward it, focusing his attention solely on the briefcase. He held up both hands in his traditional style, fingers slightly apart, and examined the object more closely. Walking slowly around the table, he leaned gradually to the left and then back again to the right. When he finally looked up at the others he noticed that both Stottlemeyer and Disher had taken a moment to grab a cup of coffee. But they too were now closely studying the briefcase, obviously just as intrigued.

"This appears to be what our suspects were fighting over," Columbo informed them. He picked up a half empty foam cup from the table surface and sipped warm coffee from it. He rolled his eyes suddenly as he realized how his statement had been phrased. "Excuse me… whatever was _in_ this briefcase appears to be what our suspects were fighting over," he continued, amending his earlier comment. "It was found lying next to Devon Petersen's body along with the .38 that was used to bludgeon him to death."

Disher picked up a pencil and used it to tug gently, one by one, at various points along the multiple pockets that were located on the underside of the briefcase cover. All of them had been sliced to ribbons, and aside from a dangling metallic ring designed to hold a set of keys, the rest of the case was completely empty. "There's very little dirt on the inside," said Disher confidently. "Most of it is on the outside." His gaze shifted to Columbo. "This was buried… somewhere in the zoo?"

"We believe it was, at some point," nodded Columbo in full agreement.

"Multiple times," noted Monk, still holding his hands in front of him and studying the briefcase intently.

"Huh?" Disher turned toward Monk with a perplexed look.

"Correct, Mr. Monk," chuckled Columbo. "I can see you're familiar with the complexity and intricacies of good old dirt and mud. If you'll allow me Chief…"

"Certainly."

He took the pencil from Disher and used it to highlight some of the loose dirt still hanging from the outside of the case. "This layer is the most recent, indicating that the briefcase was dug up very recently." He moved the eraser end of the pencil along the side of the case, using it to point toward drier layers of mud that overlapped. "The oldest, driest mud is a soft gray in color and dried to a crust. It stands out plainly in the gaps where dirt from the outer layers has fallen off." He moved the pencil again. "There is also a darker layer covering most of the exterior leather that appears to be about a week old, and a final, outer coating of what was – until a few hours ago – fresh mud." Columbo tapped a clump of dried dirt that was still colored a rich chestnut brown. "The fellows in my lab think that the freshest dirt on the outside of this case is less than twenty four hours old."

Stottlemeyer harrumphed loudly. "Good grief. You're serious! Someone buried this thing and then dug it up… _more_ than once?"

"Three times," said Monk very confidently. Finally satisfied that he had seen all there was to see, he slowly lowered his hands.

"Three times," Columbo repeated softly, smiling triumphantly at Stottlemeyer.

"What was in there?" asked Disher.

The Lieutenant shrugged indifferently. "Does it matter? It could be money, drugs, bonds… maybe even gold. Whatever it was is gone now, and whoever served as the source of those valuables has to be the individual – or individuals – who created the motive for the killing. At least three people were conspiring together and using this briefcase to conceal something very valuable here in the zoo. One of them is dead."

Stottlemeyer snorted loudly. "Petersen must have been digging it up occasionally, taking at least some of what was in there for himself, a little at a time."

"Yes, that would make sense," said Columbo slowly. "Mrs. Columbo agrees with you."

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Columbo…?"

Columbo laughed in response. "Yes," he mused thoughtfully. "Occasionally when we get these brain twisters with little to go on, I throw a few ideas her way. The boys in the lab tend to get tunnel vision after a while, so I use my wife as an objective third party."

Monk had drifted farther down the table, toward the snub-nosed .38 revolver lying next to the briefcase. He cocked his head idly to one side as he studied the weapon, noting that there were still bits of flesh, dried blood and hair sticking to the end of the hand grip. There were also faint traces of golden fingerprint dust. Obviously the weapon had been studied by experts, but had failed to produce any useful fingerprints. "I want to see the spot where Petersen died," he decided firmly.

"That's not likely to yield a whole lot of new information," agreed the Lieutenant instantly. "Our team went over the entire site pretty thoroughly before and after the sun came up this morning. Then they worked with the zoo staff to clean up the spot where the body fell. Add to that the fact that zoo customers have been moving around since the zoo opened this morning… well, you can probably guess that there isn't a whole lot left to see. However, I'm certainly willing to walk you out there for a look around. My guys and gals are pretty good, but we've missed things before and I'm certain it will happen again."

Taking one last look at the briefcase, Stottlemeyer smiled at his colleague. "How did we do?" he asked.

"You did _great_," admitted Columbo. "Most of your observations were made right here on the spot, without the assistance of our lab technicians. Virtually everything you pointed out concurs with our own conclusions." He shook his head admirably at Adrian Monk. "You are the real deal, detective Monk," he said with obvious appreciation. "Not too many people could distinguish between layers of mud so accurately without lab equipment – at minimum a magnifying glass or microscope."

"It's a gift," Monk replied for the umpteenth time in his career, "and a curse."


	5. Fountain Of Knowledge

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Fountain Of Knowledge**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>__ After hearing the news of Peter Falk's death on June 23rd, I was truly saddened. This novel is now dedicated to him and to his family. I'm sure the "Monk" cast would join me in making sure this wonderful actor is well remembered. Many of us who are older and watched him 'do his Columbo thing' will always, always remember him fondly._

* * *

><p><em>Friday evening, 6:17 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>The sun was still out when Adrian Monk and the rest of his team emerged from the east entrance to the Security building, trailing behind Lieutenant Columbo. The slightly rumpled figure of the Los Angeles detective shuffled cheerfully ahead of them, and he genuinely appeared to enjoy leading the way. Disher and Stottlemeyer followed closely behind Monk while listening to Columbo casually whistling the notes from 'This Old Man' while he walked. The subtle beginnings of an evening breeze washed over them amidst the faint calls and chittering of various zoo animals in the background.<p>

The Captain placed a hand on Monk's shoulder and temporarily slowed him down. "So what do you think Monk?" he asked curiously. "What's your first impression of Lieutenant Columbo."

"I think he's old," said Monk rather frankly. "Old and wrinkled."

Stottlemeyer chuckled at the blunt assessment. "I know what's really bothering you," he stated factually, pointing an accusatory finger at the detective. "He _promised_ he won't smoke the damned cigar Monk."

"He doesn't have to. That raincoat of his has obviously been around since the meteor strike that killed off the entire dinosaur population. And it absorbed enough smoke during all of that time to compensate for the two or three minutes a day that he _doesn't_ smoke." Monk's expression shriveled into a look of disgust. "The thing reeks… I smelled it before we even left the freeway."

"This may be the case, but the Lieutenant is as effective at analyzing a crime scene as you are," pointed out Stottlemeyer just as directly. "Don't judge him by his appearance… that's the mistake his suspects make."

"Before or after they die of second-hand smoke inhalation?"

The Captain shook his head with frustration and decided to let the matter drop for a time. He noticed, upon stepping out into the sunlit evening, that both Natalie and Julie were waiting for them. Obviously their earlier business with Sergeant Pearson had concluded.

"You're done already, huh?" queried Stottlemeyer as he and Disher paused long enough to allow the ladies to precede him. Already Monk had stepped out onto the zoo grounds, eager to examine the crime scene.

"Yeah, our part in all of this should be pretty simple," Natalie replied with a satisfied smile. "Julie and I are supposed to wear civilian clothing and hang around the zoo, watching for anything odd. That's all we have to do… pretend we're tourists and report anything that appears to be out of the ordinary."

"It will be fun," piped in Julie. "Mom and I will get to spend some time together, and it will be nice to see something a little different for a change. I've been to the San Francisco zoo a _million_ times." She wrinkled her nose, and a sudden thought struck her. "They have an Arboretum and Botanic Garden here too… we should definitely make at least one stop there." She punched her mother lightly on the shoulder as they moved north along the dusty walking path.

"Once we've concluded our business here, honey."

"Of course. The police work comes first." Julie seemed genuinely enthused at the prospect of assisting in one of Monk's detective outings. Having known him first as a pre-teen, she was enjoying her rapid ascent toward full adulthood. She wasn't just hearing about her mother's adventures with Monk these days; now she had actually been presented with an opportunity to participate in one of them.

The group paused briefly at the 'fairy tale' fountain, spending a minute or two admiring the multitude of famous characters captured so precisely detailed in cement. Water gurgled steadily from the top of the tower where Rapunzel remained a reluctant prisoner, washing down all four of its sides toward the odd assortment of characters below. Rays of weakening sunlight reflected off of the flowing clear liquid in a glittering display of light. On the horizon, the first pink rays of a sunset had begun to appear along the base of a partially clouded sky.

Columbo slowed to a stop on the west side of the fountain near its outer hand railing and turned back to face the rest of them. "This is where Frank Lauden was found handcuffed," he informed them. Walking suddenly toward the west, he halted about a dozen yards from his previous stop. "And this is where we found Devon Petersen's body, the briefcase and the murder weapon."

"I don't get it," declared Natalie. Monk was flanking her, but he was already moving away from them while studying the immediate area carefully. "Why did the killer leave the gun here… doesn't that literally hand a proverbial 'smoking gun' over to the police?"

"It does," admitted Stottlemeyer. "Sometimes that can work to a suspect's advantage."

"It's much tougher to get rid of a gun later," Columbo added, offering his own perspective. "We know the murderer was someone from the outside, someone who had to be let _into_ the zoo. It's our job now to try and discover who it was and place him here during the time of the killing. If he had taken the gun with him…" Columbo threw up both hands and shrugged both shoulders, pausing as he watched her reaction.

"…then he'd have had to try and get rid of it later," nodded Natalie, finishing his point for him. "And if he simply hides it and you catch him with the evidence, then he's got a lot of explaining to do."

"Correct." Columbo smiled in full agreement. "Guns can be very tough to dispose of. If you throw one in a vacant lot, trash can or sewer, it's likely to be found. Toss it in the ocean, and you risk the chance that someone will witness you doing it." He shook his head thoughtfully. "Somebody reasonably intelligent committed this crime. He initially reacted emotionally by committing the murder, but recovered his senses enough to realize we already had a body. That's why he left the weapon here too. Without fingerprints, we still have to find evidence that will place him here somewhere between midnight and 2:00 a.m. So he made sure that he doesn't have to risk being seen getting rid of a weapon outside the zoo grounds."

Disher had been listening closely to the conversation, and he frowned slightly at Columbo's words. "You also mentioned in the file you sent us that there were footprints implicating Frank Lauden as an accessory? Why don't you just detain and interrogate him?"

"Yeah, I meant to get copies of the footprint photos made for you fellas, but… well, you know…" Columbo raised his left hand and waved it in frustration. "I have so many things to remember when something like this happens, it's a wonder I managed to get you the documents you have."

"The information you provided was _exceptional_," interjected Stottlemeyer suddenly. "For crying out loud, the crime took place early _this_ morning," he pointed out. "We've only been in L.A. for about 90 minutes, and already you've filled in a lot of the missing pieces."

"Ed Mertz told me that there are normally twelve people on his security team," said Columbo in answer to Randy's original question, although he smiled gratefully at the Captain. "Three of them are on duty at any given time throughout each day. Mertz himself usually works the first night shift after the zoo closes, although he will occasionally work during the day. Since both Petersen and Lauden were involved in all of this, I want to allow Lauden the opportunity to betray the killer. We're going to watch him in particular, to see where he goes and who he talks to."

Raising an eyebrow, Disher appeared genuinely surprised. "Do you suspect _more_ people on the zoo staff may be involved in this death?"

"Possibly." Columbo's mouth tightened into a thin line as he stood for a moment, deep in thought. "Eventually if he doesn't lead us anywhere noteworthy, I'll have Lauden picked up… if only to discover what it was they were fighting about."

Monk was paying significantly less attention to the ongoing conversation. Once again he was in full 'Monk mode' with both of his hands raised tentatively in front of him, fingers partially spread with both thumbs pointing at each other. Bending over, he leaned his head to the left and studied the hand rail surrounding the fountain carefully. "There are scratch marks where the Lieutenant stood… very recently made…" he noted, speaking softly to no one but himself. "…probably created by Lauden during the time he was hanging from a set of handcuffs."

He continued circling the safety railing, ignoring the cement fairy tale creatures that occupied the vast majority of the fountain's base area. Instead, he focused his attention on the flowing, sparkling water that still reflected the light from the setting sun. Most of the others in the small group were still standing in a group visiting when he came to a very sudden, complete stop and simply stared into the midst of the water. Something that he observed had very definitely caught his attention, but it was not immediately obvious to the others just what that might be. Carefully he used the tip of his right shoe to draw an 'X' in the dirt next to the in-step of his left foot.

Columbo was standing off by himself, away from the others but listening carefully while watching Monk curiously. He noticed his colleague's reaction instantly. "What is it, Mr. Monk?" he asked.

Adrian Monk stood where he was for a moment longer as though frozen in place. Then he took a cautious step backward and waited another few seconds. By now the others had stopped talking and also noticed Monk's odd reaction. They grew instantly silent and joined Columbo in watching him step forward again to stand in the very same spot where he had originally come to a halt. Twice more Monk shifted his position, first to the left and then to the right. But each time he moved, he returned first to the original spot marked with an 'X' before trying another angle. "I thought I saw something in there that doesn't belong," he said sternly, eyes focused intently on the flowing water.

"What… something in the water?" Natalie moved forward so she could peer over the hand rail.

"Yes, something in the water." Monk was once again standing firmly on top of his 'X' in the soft dirt. "I think it's reflecting the sunlight a bit differently… like a single star that twinkles just a bit more brightly than all the rest."

He pointed toward an area inside the fountain at ground level, where running water flowed steadily outward toward the drain holes. As water tended to do, it dribbled continually past all of the fairy tale creatures, treasure chests and other objects that the fountain's creators had meticulously formed, arranged and placed. Along the concrete bottom, hundreds of coins in varying sizes could be seen sitting idle right where they had landed after being cast by eager zoo goers. Most of them were pennies, but there was also an impressive assortment of nickels, dimes, dollar coins and even a larger fifty cent piece that lay partially upright against the foot of a sneering gnome. Along the outer edges of the water, patches of a greenish-yellow moss mixed with white foam clung to the base of the metal railing. The strong current generated by the steady flow of water prevented the algae from occupying any other position.

"There," Monk said firmly, keeping his extended finger pointed directly at his chosen spot. "I can see it right _there _in the water, but it's starting to fade."

"What is it?" inquired Natalie.

"I can't tell," replied her employer with a slight frown. "It's barely there."

"Monk, there are a _lot_ of things in that fountain," Stottlemeyer reminded him.

"This is _different_," insisted a suddenly enthused Monk. "We need a closer look."

"Well?" Stottlemeyer placed his hands firmly on his hips and regarded Monk with mild frustration. "_Go_ in there and take a closer look."

Monk actually smiled with tepid amusement at the concept. "I can't do that Captain," he decided firmly. "If I move I'll lose the reflection. Besides, have you seen all the algae in there? I'll bet the whole thing is a massive germ colony. We didn't bring enough wipes…"

"If someone will hold my raincoat, I'll go," volunteered Columbo.

"No," decided Stottlemeyer, placing a hand on the detective's arm to hold him back. "Randy. You're perfect for this type of thing. You go in there."

Disher's expression grew puzzled. "In where?"

"In the _fountain!_" roared Stottlemeyer suddenly, pointing toward the fountain. "This is right up your alley, Mr. Boy Scout leader."

"I don't exactly appreciate that kind of tone," commented Disher idly, slowly removing the navy sports blazer he wore and handing it to Natalie. "Remember… you're not exactly my boss any longer. If you think this is so important, why don't _you_ go in?"

Stottlemeyer exhaled with frustration and began removing his own jacket. "Okay, I _will_," he snapped.

"No, no, that's okay," decided a subdued Disher almost immediately. He flashed a relieved smile at the Captain. "Just the fact that you offered makes me feel a lot better…" He flashed his boyish grin. "You said the right thing and made me feel like a peer instead of the 'gopher' I used to be."

The sun was continuing its gradual descent in the eastern sky, with Monk still standing and pointing toward a spot inside the fountain. "Would _somebody_ please get in there?" he bellowed. "The sun is going down, and I'm losing it!"

"Lose what?" Natalie was now completely intrigued and moved over toward the edge of the railing. She hopped up so that she could see better, leaning over and focusing her gaze intently toward the spot Monk was pointing at. She studied the area carefully for a moment, frowning with disappointment. "I see the bottoms of a bunch of cement fairy tale characters and hundreds of old coins."

"It's a twinkle…" began Monk.

"I know, I know." Natalie's expression reflected the oddity of his behavior. Her voice deepened into a sarcastic mirror of Monk's. "Like one star that's shining brighter than all the others…something that is barely there."

"Hang on, hang on, I'm on my way," promised Disher, taking a step closer to the fountain while sizing up the height of the hand railing. He grabbed hold of the curving metal and started to hoist himself up, then suddenly decided against the action and dropped back down to the ground. "I'd better take off my shoes and socks," he decided at the last minute. "Sharona will kill me if I ruin the new dress shoes she bought me for my last birthday." He sat down in a cloud of dust and carefully removed the shoes, followed almost immediately by his socks. Julie chuckled at the sight of the New Jersey police Chief sitting in the dirt with a shirt, tie, navy slacks and bare feet. But it wasn't long at all before Randy stuck his socks in one of the shoes and then leaped promptly to his feet.

"_Hurry!_" Monk urged him, taking his eyes off his precious target for just an instant so he could glance in the general direction of the dying sun. Very slowly he edged a few inches to his left and then fixed himself firmly to the new location as though his feet were anchored in the Earth. He continued to watch the point of light that had so completely captured his attention and, without taking his eyes off of the target he was still focusing on, the detective reached into the shirt pocket beneath his sweater vest and removed a small pair of tweezers. "Take these," he suggested, holding them out so Disher could grab them on his way past.

"I used to be good at this in High School," grinned Disher in response, accepting the tweezers and running suddenly toward the railing. He vaulted expertly over it and landed with a splash in the shallow six inches of water flowing over the cement floor of the fountain. One of his feet landed awkwardly against the base of Rumpelstiltskin's spinning machine, and he stumbled backward for an instant. Reaching out, he caught the edge of the concrete gnome's beard and steadied himself. "Okay," he said with growing confidence. "Where do you want me to go, Monk?"

"Move to your left about three feet."

Smiling, Randy complied. "Ooh… wow. This water is a lot colder than it looks," he said with a light laugh. Natalie was tempted to tease him, but she held back the snarky comment that leaped to mind when she noticed that his chin had started trembling.

Stottlemeyer harrumphed loudly. "Next time, roll up the legs on your slacks," he suggested.

Glancing down at the soaked legs of his blue slacks, Disher noticed what the Captain was getting at. "Oh," he said with a reluctant nod. That's a good point Captain. But don't worry… these were on sale and ruining them will not aggravate Sharona in any way, shape or form." Holding the tweezers that Monk had given him in his right hand, he slowed near the spot where Monk was pointing. "What now?" he asked in a trembling voice. His whole body had started shaking, prompted by the combination of cold water and the first gusts from a strong evening breeze.

"Take one small step back," ordered Monk. He watched carefully as the Chief did so. "Another two inches to the left and another small step back." He pointed more urgently. "_There!_ Near Hansel's left leg. About six inches back from his heel…"

Disher dropped to a squatting position and looked down at the glittering water flowing past his bared ankles. "I _still_ don't see anything…" he commented idly, reaching down and cautiously feeling around with his left hand. He began picking up coins and patiently tossing them aside, one by one.

"What the hell are you looking at Monk?" asked Stottlemeyer with a puzzled look in Monk's direction.

Reaching back into the water, Randy's fingers touched the top of a gleaming silver nickel. "_Stop!_" shouted Monk sharply, causing Disher to freeze in place. "Move your hand slowly forward," he instructed more eagerly, closely watching the Chief's fingers. "Now move it a centimeter or two to the right."

"Monk, are you certain…?" Stottlemeyer was now leaning over the railing too, but his attention remained focused firmly on face of his friend. "What do you see in there?"

"Maybe he doesn't see anything," said Disher with a sudden, uncontrolled shiver. "It could be a mirage or…" A startled look crossed his face and he once again came to a halt, this time without being told.

"Yes. _There!_" shouted Monk with a triumphant cry of relief.

Slowly Randy Disher reached down into the water with his right hand. He moved the tweezers through the water toward the middle finger of his left hand. To everyone watching, it appeared as though he used the tool to pick up a centimeter or two of absolutely nothing. But when he rose to his feet only seconds later, everyone could see the last few rays of the day's remaining sunlight glittering sharply off of the multiple, varied facets from an unusually large diamond clamped tightly between the tips of the tweezers.

"Now _that_ is truly the most amazing thing I think I have ever seen," declared Columbo, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with one hand. "Absolutely, one-hundred percent amazing."

* * *

><p><em>Friday evening, 8:34 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>After parking the Peugeot, Columbo waited patiently alongside the driver's side. Captain Stottlemeyer was a very large man and subsequently had a difficult time getting out of the small vehicle. "You're going to love this place," the Lieutenant promised Stottlemeyer. "I tell ya, Leland, it's got the <em>best<em> chili."

The Captain grinned in response as he allowed the Lieutenant to lead him toward one of L.A.'s finest 'greasy spoon' diners. "Thanks for letting Randy take my car and drive the others back to the hotel," he said, sincerely grateful. "We've all had a long day, and I think the ladies in particular will appreciate the chance to eat and get a decent night's sleep." He thought about Adrian Monk for a minute and then laughed out loud, wondering how long his colleague would spend testing out his new dustbuster. _Better if I stay away for a few hours_, he decided silently. That would give Natalie time to work her calming magic.

The large neon sign above the entrance flashed a simple 'Bob's Eatery' in pink and blue, although the second 'e' was barely lit. Both men entered the restaurant and moved swiftly to an open booth. A sweaty, balding cook stuck his head out of the kitchen just long enough to size up the newcomers. "How ya' doing tonight Lieutenant?" he asked exuberantly.

"Doing just fine Bob!" Columbo roared back at him with a boyish grin.

"Good to hear. Sally, take care of these two, will ya' please?"

Columbo waved a friendly hand as a blonde waitress appeared almost instantly next to them, chewing gum and holding a pair of menus. "I'll just have the chili Sally," he said with a warm smile.

Stottlemeyer opened one of the menus for just a moment, long enough to take a quick look at the list of daily specials clipped at an angle inside. "I'll have the roast chicken sandwich with bacon, ranch and lettuce," he decided. "And tomato please."

"Fries too?" wondered the blonde casually.

"How about a small onion rings?"

"And two coffees please," added Columbo, watching the waitress jot something simple down on her menu pad. She collected the Captain's menu and retreated back behind the main serving counter, where a simple cash register rested directly above a display case containing a variety of pies, muffins and cookies. The Lieutenant leaned back in the booth he was sitting in, resting his head for a moment while deep in thought. "My whole career I've been ordering chili for lunch and dinner," he commented idly, glancing up at his colleague and friend. "And every time, the people I'm with give me grief about my lack of variety." He shook his head. "You're one of the few who hasn't."

"I like chili," replied Stottlemeyer gruffly. "It's got some beef to it, and unless you overeat it doesn't hit your system so hard." He shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently. "The only reason I'm ordering something a little tastier is that this trip is turning out to be a working vacation… I figure I might as well relax a bit and get out of my normal routine."

"Exactly." Columbo folded the fingers of both hands together and set them on the table surface. "But I'll tell ya'… all of these guys down at the department who are giving me grief about ordering chili over the years…" He paused long enough to chuckle amiably. "Well now their doctors have 'em all on special diets, or they have major heart problems and a gut the size of Mt. Everest. Me… I'm still eating chili all the time, and occasionally Mrs. Columbo makes _me_ something a little tastier."

Again Sally the waitress appeared in front of them, setting two slightly chipped coffee mugs on the table. She poured each of the men a full steaming load of java and professionally left the pot, scampering almost immediately back to her station behind the counter with hardly a word. Stottlemeyer picked up his mug and sipped at the hot liquid tentatively, then with more vigor. "This is really good," he decided, savoring the taste. "Definitely better than the stuff we usually drink. But that's not why we're here, is it detective?"

"Not entirely," admitted Columbo. "I wrote down some notes for you to look over." He began tapping the pockets of his raincoat repeatedly, a search that rapidly became erratic and expanded to the lower pockets and then to his trousers. "Maybe I left it back in the car," he guessed, stopping for a moment to think about where he had seen it last. Then he checked the back pocket of his slacks and smiled with delight. "There it is," he declared a bit sheepishly. "I slipped it in with my wallet." Flipping swiftly through the small book, he began scanning over the notes that he had handwritten earlier during his time at the zoo. "This Mr. Monk of yours, is he a good judge of character?"

"He is," said the Captain without hesitation. "At many of our crime scenes, we examine the evidence just like we did today. Then we conduct a few interviews with key people. In a lot of cases, we walk away from someone who appears to be totally innocent and Monk will point and say…" Stopping briefly to clear his throat, Stottlemeyer altered his voice slightly and hissed softly, "_He's_ the guy."

Columbo nodded and tore several sheets out of his small notebook. "Again I am impressed," he concluded while passing several pieces of paper across the table. "There are a lot of people who are born with talents similar to your Adrian Monk, but most of them can't also size a person up." He smiled and sipped at his own coffee mug. "I must admit, I would have liked to have met Monk earlier in my career," he decided with obvious admiration. "What a truly _amazing_ thing he did today… I still can't get over it. My wife will go nuts when she hears about this. Knowing her, I would imagine she's going to insist on meeting him."

Studying the Lieutenant's crude notes on the first sheet of paper, Stottlemeyer brushed his mustache thoughtfully with the fingers of one hand. "Talk to Laura and Amanda Petersen?" he read somewhat quizzically. "You want us to talk to the family of the dead guy?"

"A short interview might help reveal something useful," decided Columbo. "My people have already taken care of the hard part – telling Mrs. Petersen and Amanda about the death of their loved one. But I think it would be interesting to have your team visit with them at least for a little while. Well… you know how it goes. If Mrs. Petersen knows anything about the 'larger picture' involving her husband… well, one of you should be able to tell based on her response to direct questions." He smiled wryly, glancing at the 'No Smoking' sign taped to a window next to the door. "I can't catch a break anywhere these days," he declared with obvious disappointment. "People like me are rapidly becoming extinct in our modern society Captain… even if we do manage to keep ourselves healthy eating chili over the years. The younger generations tend to run right over us on their rush to adulthood."

The conversation paused at an opportune moment, just long enough to allow Sally the time needed to deliver the rest of their order. She set a large bowl of hot chili and several packets of saltines in front of Columbo. In her other hand she lowered a warm plate with a large chicken sandwich, onion rings and a pickle spear. She slid the plate expertly in front of Stottlemeyer and then removed bright red and yellow ketchup and mustard bottles from the pocket of her light pink blouse. "Holler if you need anything else Lieutenant," she called back over her shoulder, busily moving on to her next task.

Placing a napkin in his lap, Stottlemeyer used the knife next to his plate to slice his sandwich cleanly in half. It was a preference of his own that he felt made a sandwich easier to eat. "We can't stop the news agencies from printing articles about Adrian Monk," he said slowly after finishing the first bite from his sandwich. "And God only knows, we've done our best to keep word of mouth in our department from spreading too fast. Everybody who hears about him wants to work with him, or…" he paused long enough to take another bite and chew, "…in some cases, people from other police forces have even tried to hire him away from us. The pressure is obviously on them, since his many talents also come with the terrible burdens that are anxiety disorders with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Most people could never value all the good Monk does while putting up with his… dark side. He has tried other things, and I always seem to be the right fit for him."

"Most people have trouble putting up with me too," pointed out Columbo between bites of chili. "I'm not exactly the easiest person in the world to work with, and yet I don't have Mr. Monk's gift."

"So how do you work around that?" Stottlemeyer wondered inquisitively. "From what I've heard, the homicides you investigate are almost always linked to celebrities or very affluent people. If you're as tough to work with as you say, then I would think that your personal traits would make it impossible for you to interact with the elites of Los Angeles."

"I guess that's always been _my_ gift," decided Columbo with a grin. "I have a really, _really_ thick skin."

"You do huh?"

"I do." Crumbling a few crackers in his half-eaten chili, Columbo stirred them into the mixture with his spoon. "I got lucky on my first few cases and solved them fairly quickly. On one of them, a guy who had connections downtown went over my head and began calling my Captain, the D.A., the Mayor, or anyone else he'd made friends with over the years." The Lieutenant smiled at the memory. "Boy, let me tell ya' did I get my rear end chewed off during those first few months. But I stuck to my guns and refused to change my reports even a little bit. On one case, I flat out told my Captain that if a suspect was trying so hard to get the police to stop investigating, then he probably wasn't as innocent as he claimed to be." He chuckled with more than a little amusement at the memory. "I was just a young kid, but I boldly stated that 'this kind of a situation is a red arrow pointing directly at the word _guilty_ sir'."

Stottlemeyer laughed sympathetically. "Celebrity cases are the worst," he agreed. "Wealthy folks can really put a lot of pressure on people who make significantly less money than they do, and you are correct – they usually have a network of connections with other similar authority figures."

"That's why the high profile cases eventually became my specialty," added the Lieutenant informatively. "Who else would want to talk to rich people? Oh sure, it's fun at first to meet them and all, and maybe get a little recognition from them for being a cop. But eventually you have to discuss things like homicide and blood and autopsies, and well, I guess you would know as well as anyone how fast the conversations can get awkward." He glanced at the Captain. "I'm sure you've done your share of talking to the press."

"Yes I have, and I must admit that it sucks every time."

"Going over your head is only one way people can put pressure on you. They can 'go public' too, and that's even less fun. That's why I became the 'go to' fella in those types of investigations… because I don't care if they do that. I've been embarrassed out of my socks on more than one occasion, sometimes very publically. But in the end I've _caught_ someone each and every time. Suspects who give me a hard time or overreact to my unpredictable mannerisms are basically pointing that big red arrow of guilt at themselves. Excessive irritation and anger doesn't always mean someone is guilty, but more often than not it's a pretty darned good indicator."

"People who underreact give themselves away too."

"Oh yes, the ones with lots of self-control and no conscience." The memories continued to flow, good and bad, as though they were immortalized on a deck of shuffling cards in Columbo's brain. "I can read people pretty well too, and I have my own _'he's the guy'_ type of alarm bell. Once I talk to a suspect and really _know_ that he or she did it… well, the hard part's done. Then all I have to do is find some sort of proof or find a way to force a confession out of them. And since I'm not as unbelievably brilliant as your Mr. Monk, my case history probably contains a few more confessions than his does."

Stottlemeyer finished the first half of his sandwich. "So you draw most of the celebrity cases because you've learned how to deal with temperamental people? What, may I ask, happens when you retire?"

"Oh the guys and gals at the office will get by," promised Columbo optimistically. "We regularly rotate our specialists from team to team in order to give them all experience working with stronger personalities. Sergeant Burke is probably the fellow I've worked with longest, but my current Captain is a close second." The lines on his forehead creased deeper as a thought struck him. "Mark my words, Leland, there's a link of some sort to someone with money or power in this case too, just like my other investigations." He shook his head with a dry smile. "My current Captain has been with the department for over a decade, and he has a nose for sniffing out the homicide investigations that are right up my alley. The diamond that your friend found today _proves_ his instincts are as accurate as ours."

"Good instincts make a good cop. Good instincts and _experience_ make a great cop," added Stottlemeyer.

Again the detective leaned back in his seat and relaxed. "You and me, we do this as a career," he noted firmly. "The murderers… well, they usually haven't killed before, at least not the ones I get. And they all have one thing in common. They think they're smarter than everyone else."

"Word on the street is that you ride your suspects pretty hard."

"Only the ones that I _know_ are involved in a crime," the Lieutenant replied sincerely. "At first… well, at first I tend to be tough on everybody. But once the first few interviews are over it is usually pretty obvious who is guilty and who isn't. Because my assignments tend to involve wealthy folks with a lot to lose, most of the homicides I investigate are very carefully and precisely planned. Premeditated killings are the ones that bother me the most, because it's a deliberate attempt by a suspect to place himself – or herself – above the law. And, more often than not, these people try to throw blame onto someone else… they're actually perfectly willing to send someone else to prison in their place for a crime that _they_ committed."

"I believe I've met a few of those myself, over the years."

With a shove Columbo pushed forward the mostly emptied bowl of chili. "I guess you could say we're an odd variety of amateur psychologist too," he continued. "Because that's one of the reasons I usually spend a lot of time hanging around people and sizing them up. Essentially it all boils down to how much effort someone places in trying to deny their guilt. The ones without a conscience can be the toughest nuts to crack, but they're also the easiest to spot. And the more they try to circumvent me and the law, well, the more likely I am to recommend in my final report that the judge throw the book at them."

"We have a lot in common," said Stottlemeyer. He grabbed the red plastic bottle in front of him and poured a spot of ketchup on the edge of his plate for the onion rings. "I'm really glad I decided to take you up on your offer… I think this investigation will be much more educational than a ballistics conference."

"I'll send you and Chief Disher the summary notes."

"We would appreciate that."

Columbo leaned suddenly forward, eyes glittering. "I really, really like your friend Monk," he admitted truthfully. "I guess it won't bother me if he doesn't end up liking me personally, but I'm hoping that by the end of this case I'll at least have earned his respect."

"Monk is a person trapped in a world of dirt and germs, surrounded by people who don't recognize the need to totally exterminate all of them," the Captain observed. "He likes things consistent and orderly, and he isn't shy about taking the initiative to make that happen." He waved a casual hand in the Lieutenant's direction. "You've had decades of experience working with a variety of eccentric personalities. So if you are able to put yourself in Monk's shoes and examine life from his perspective, I believe you'll find a way to relate."

Both men snapped to attention as an electronic tone sounded unexpectedly. "It's not mine," grinned Columbo. "I don't carry a cell phone."

Stottlemeyer nodded. "It's mine," he chuckled. Removing the device from his coat, he opened it. "Hello?"

Columbo stirred at the remaining bit of chili with his spoon and waited patiently. He looked up with surprise when the Captain suddenly reached across the table and handed him the phone. "For me?"

"It is."

"Understandable. I don't carry a phone of my own, so I hope you don't mind my leaving your number with my staff." He accepted the small electronic device and held it for a few minutes, speaking tersely with the person on the other end. Stottlemeyer used the opportunity to finish his onion rings, listening to the one-sided conversation carefully. He picked up enough key words and phrases spoken by the Lieutenant to realize that the call was directly related to their case.

"Good news?" he asked when Columbo finally handed back the phone. He thumbed the off button, folded the small device together and replaced it in his jacket.

"One of our forensics boys finished a 'diamond plot' of the flaws in the gemstone Mr. Monk found. They were able to trace it to a local wholesaler. That will be another stop we can add to our list of things to do for tomorrow morning."

"It might be a good idea if I asked Randy to rent a second vehicle…"

"Not necessary," promised Columbo with a wide grin. "The boys and girls downtown are setting up a temporary office where you and your people can work in our department, with direct access to all of our resources. We'll also check out a car from our fleet and put it at your disposal. From what you told me, Chief Disher or Ms. Teeger will be able to use it whenever the need for an extra vehicle arises."

"Thanks," acknowledged Stottlemeyer gratefully. A bit impulsively he reached for the check left by the waitress. "I'll pay you for my share of dinner…"

"No, no… I'll be getting that," protested Columbo meaningfully. "You folks got up in the middle of the night, after all, and traveled all the way down here." He pulled out his wallet and began thumbing through its contents. "That diamond Mr. Monk found has really given our investigation wheels. We've made a lot of progress… all in less than twenty-four hours. Dinner is the least that I can do for you as a thank you. It will make me feel better, sir."

"Well then, thank you very much Lieutenant."

Columbo continued examining the contents of his wallet for another few seconds, his expression clouding. "Ah… I don't exactly seem to have a lot of cash on me at the moment." An embarrassed flush appeared on his cheeks. "Do you think you could loan me a few dollars until tomorrow?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>__ A 'diamond plot' is a graphical image created by a professional jeweler, viewed from the top and/or bottom, that maps out the various flaws in a gemstone. All natural diamonds have these flaws, some of which can be partially repaired, polished or even cleverly hidden in a setting. I did a little research to understand this process and promise to try and avoid using too much 'diamond lingo' in the story. There are lots of various terms to describe each type of flaw, but I will not use them here unless this kind of terminology relates directly to the story._

_Suffice it to say the plotting images are a gemstone's equivalent to a human fingerprint. They are entirely unique and allow for the specific identification of any given stone. Local dealers in my area like to advertise modern technology and 'laser etched id numbers'. I was quite surprised to learn that a laser id tag is basically one of those 'little extras' that jewelers charge to make people feel better. They are usually burned into the 'girdle' of a diamond, and can (1) easily be polished off by thieves, or (2) matched up with a forged certificate bearing the same number. Even with all of today's modern technology, the plot map is still the best way to track a stolen gemstone._

_I'll post a couple of interesting, informative diagrams in the picture section of my profile page if you want to study the specifics of gemstones further. These two images taught me quite a bit in a short period of time._


	6. Three Of A Kind

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Three Of A Kind**

* * *

><p><em>Saturday morning, 7:45 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>After a relaxing night's sleep, Natalie woke up shortly after seven a.m. The LED display on her travel clock was glowing with a bright red '7:10' to be precise. The alarm she had set for 7:30 would not go off for another twenty minutes. She inhaled deeply and relaxed for a moment before making the decision to get up early and begin her morning routine. She began to throw the covers on her bed aside, she heard the sound of shower spray coming from the room's small bathroom. Surprised she glanced over at the other queen sized bed, noticing instantly that it was empty. <em>Julie is up early in the morning on a Saturday<em>, she thought with a disbelieving shake of her blonde head. _Will wonders never cease? Perhaps there are some benefits to college and her living on her own_.

She had heard nothing from Monk after he moved off down the corridor toward his own room the night before. Originally, Captain Stottlemeyer had planned to bunk with him, but that plan had swiftly changed once the Captain found out that Chief Disher would be able to meet them. Now it was the two police officers who were sharing a room, with Adrian Monk occupying a room all by himself. _Along with the privacy that he very desperately needs_, decided Natalie firmly. The former detective had come so far since finally resolving the mystery behind Trudy's murder… she had high hopes for him and looked forward to seeing him continue to improve. Despite his early fuss over the dustbuster, she hadn't heard a knock on her door all night.

Natalie Teeger was many things, but not one to waste an opportunity. She pulled the covers back over her slim body and preserved the warmth beneath them, content to simply relax and catnap for another fifteen minutes until Julie was through in the bathroom. Despite a quick shower, she noticed that it was almost twenty minutes before finally hearing Julie open the outer door to their room and step into the hotel's adjoining corridor. _So_, she mused silently to herself. _My daughter is getting up earlier because it's taking her longer to make herself look beautiful in the morning_. Chuckling with mild amusement, she roused herself, shut off the small blue alarm clock and shook off the last of the night's slumber before heading for the shower herself.

Fifteen minutes later Natalie found her daughter in the lounge, nibbling on a donut from the hotel's continental breakfast as she studied an advertising flier. Doing her best to hide an inward smile, Natalie poured herself a glass of fresh orange juice. She was tempted to go straight for the coffee, but their plans were to spend most of the day at the zoo. All the walking involved with that endeavor, along with the fresh air, would clear her head in no time… and without the caffeine. "What are you reading?" she asked Julie.

Her daughter looked up with sparkling blue eyes and a wide smile. "_Oh_… my… God!"

Natalie glanced curiously at her daughter. "What?"

"Mom," said Julie slowly, returning her own attention to the colorful flier. "He's _here_. In L.A."

"Who?" Sipping at her juice, Natalie shifted her gaze toward the photos on the flier.

"Handsome Stranger! You know… the guy who sings about half of the songs on my MP3 player. He's here in L.A. for a series of concerts. We _have_ to go see him! This is _such_ a coincidence!"

"What coincidence? A musician traveling to Los Angeles to perform at a concert… yeah, you're right. That never happens." Unperturbed, Natalie picked out a blueberry donut with glazed icing and took a tentative bite. It was quite sticky, so she reached for the pile of napkins setting next to the juice pitcher.

"It's a total coincidence that _we_ would be here while he's in town. He's usually on tour… the man lives for his non-stop road trips all over the country." Shaking her head, she folded the pamphlet carefully and put it in her purse. "I'm going to call for tickets. You _have_ to take me Mom… this is _important!_"

"Don't get carried away just yet please," replied Natalie. She sipped at the juice again and – combined with the sweetness of the donut – the resulting taste was awful. Tossing the half empty cup into a nearby trash container, she swiftly changed her mind and headed for the coffee. "Isn't this the rich party animal that is always in the tabloids?" She wrinkled her nose with disapproval while pouring coffee into a white foam cup. "If I remember correctly, he's so well known for substance abuse that he's actually competitive with Keith Richards in the late night comedian joke department." She chuckled at Julie's reaction. "Let's go see Craig Ferguson or something."

"Mom, this guy is absolutely _gorgeous!_" insisted Julie, pointing a finger sharply at her mother. "And you're the one who constantly tells me not to _judge_ people." Suddenly she put her hands on her hips and regarded her mother sternly. Natalie almost laughed aloud, because the action mirrored so many of her own over the years. "Aren't you the same person who has always told me that Mr. Monk's flaws are a large part of what makes him such a genius detective?" She raised and then waved both hands in front of her for emphasis. "Well there you go… it's the _exact_ same thing with talented musicians!"

"Maybe." Natalie sipped at the coffee and, satisfied with its sharp aroma and taste, finished her donut. "My but you're growing up fast, daughter of mine. Using my own words against me now, are you?"

Julie laughed lightly and pulled out her phone. "I'm going to call and see if they have tickets left."

"For when?" Natalie shot her daughter a motherly look of mild disapproval. "Remember, we're here to _help_ Lieutenant Columbo, and we're going to _honor_ that commitment."

"We can help him. He wants us to patrol the zoo during the day. It closes at 7:00 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. The concert doesn't begin until eight. Tomorrow's show should work great. You can drive us there right after we're finished at the zoo."

"I'm not so sure," fussed Natalie, although she could spot a once in a lifetime chance to bond with her daughter a mile away. "That's not much time to get through traffic… and then there's the stadium crowd."

Cell phone in hand, Julie was already dialing. "I'll check where it's at when I see if they have tickets left for Sunday," she responded with obvious excitement. "And the way _you_ drive, we could practically make it back to San Francisco in 60 minutes."

"Hey!" Natalie smiled despite the obvious verbal jab and simply shook her head with disbelief.

Several minutes later Randy Disher and Leland Stottlemeyer showed up. It was very obvious that Stottlemeyer hadn't taken the time to shave yet – he hadn't on the previous day either and the stubble surrounding his mustache was really beginning to show. He still looked a bit sleepy eyed, was sporting 'pillow hair' and grunted at Natalie's polite stare. "Not _all_ of us are born to be early risers," he informed her boldly while pouring his own cup of coffee. "After I have breakfast, I'll clean myself up."

"Hey, I never said a word," grinned Natalie with her usual perkiness. It tended to drive men crazy in the morning, because they hated the commotion but couldn't get past the fact that she was really, really cute. So in the end, they ended up dealing with it. She could tell that Disher was still sleepy too. "Up and at 'em Chief!" she said enthusiastically, slapping him on the arm. She got a dirtier look than expected in response.

"Mornin' Natalie," grunted Disher through tired looking eyes.

"You're really going to have to give us a few minutes to wake up," insisted Stottlemeyer. He polished off the cup of hot coffee he was holding in several quick gulps and went back for more. This time he didn't miss the fully laden donut tray.

"Julie wants to go see Handsome Stranger tomorrow. Apparently he's doing concerts in L.A. this week."

The Captain glanced up quizzically. "Who the hell is Handsome Stranger?" he asked.

"Oh, isn't he that tabloid king?" ventured Disher. "He's the guy that the paparazzi are always following around. You know… the guy that parties a lot, gets drunk endlessly and then hits camera men." He too drifted in the general direction of the food.

"He _isn't_ a tabloid king!" snapped Julie a bit defensively. "He's a singer, and a very, very _good_ one. 'Handsome Stranger and the Deputies' have sold more albums in recent years than just about anyone else."

"Hmm," mused Stottlemeyer thoughtfully. "You should be able to work a concert into your schedule," he decided with a friendly smile in Julie's direction. "This is a partial vacation, after all. I'm going to call in later and tell the office back in San Francisco that we're here until at least Tuesday."

"Yay! That's _another_ reason you're the greatest Captain!" Julie stated proudly, jumping up and down like a little girl. "Mom and I are going to have a really great time!"

"Oh, by the way," said Stottlemeyer unexpectedly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, passing them over to Natalie. "Before I forget… Lieutenant Columbo wants Monk, Randy and me to interview Devon Petersen's widow today. So yesterday evening he and I arranged to have a green Jeep out front for you and Julie to use."

"That should work out very nicely," Natalie decided, snatching the keys out of his extended hand. "I'm not that crazy about Jeeps though… I have to sit too high up."

"Well that's _too_ bad, because you are _never_ driving another vehicle of mine," replied the Captain gruffly. "And that includes company cars. You wrecked the last one, remember?"

"There were _extenuating_ circumstances." Natalie frowned with disapproval but Stottlemeyer's expression informed her that he wasn't about to budge one inch on the subject. A sudden thought occurred to her. "Where is Mr. Monk? He isn't still sleeping, is he?"

Disher raised an eyebrow at the comment. "You're kidding, right?" he asked. Natalie returned his surprised stare with a questioning glance. "Well, our room is between yours and Monk's," continued Disher. "Unlike you two, _we_ can hear him through the walls. He's been up since about 5:30 a.m.".

"Yes," growled Stottlemeyer like a crabby old bear. "Up since 5:24 a.m.… _vacuuming_."

* * *

><p><em>Saturday afternoon, 12:45 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Adrian Monk was riding alone in the backseat of the Dodge Charger when Stottlemeyer pulled up next to a small, trim white house in one of L.A.'s lower income neighborhoods. "This looks like a tough place to live," commented Disher from the front passenger seat, his eyes roving up and down the street while checking out other run-down homes situated along both sides of the street. Compared to them, their intended destination of number 11237 looked good, well-tended lawn and flower beds included. "And here I always thought it was the cops who got paid crappy salaries."<p>

"Are you certain this place is safe?" asked Monk, leaning forward so he could see out the front windshield. "Maybe we should drive back and forth for a while to be certain."

"That's one idea," admitted Stottlemeyer, shifting the vehicle's automatic transmission into park. "Or we could ask one of those three kids playing in the next yard over."

Monk glanced past Disher, out the side window, in the general direction that the Captain pointed at. "Oh hah hah," he replied somewhat cynically. "Obviously, you haven't seen the latest statistics on inner city youth violence. The criminals are getting younger and younger every day."

Grunting with his usual brusqueness, Stottlemeyer opened the car door and stepped out. "Monk, if one of those kids threatens you in any way, shape or form, you have permission to borrow my gun."

"Really?"

The Captain sternly glared at him through the rear window. "No."

The three of them emerged from the Charger and walked up the thin, splintered concrete sidewalk toward the front porch of Devon Petersen's house. The doorbell looked broken and useless, so the Captain simply knocked politely on the outer edge of the storm door. "Notice the metal _bars_ in front of the bug screen," pointed out Monk, refusing to abandon the issue of safety without a prolonged verbal battle. Stottlemeyer shot him another dirty look in response, causing the former detective to drift casually behind Disher. "I'll just stay in the background… and maybe let you two do all the talking," he suggested meekly.

"That would be great Monk," nodded Stottlemeyer. He raised his knuckles and knocked again.

The main door opened suddenly, revealing a young looking woman in her early thirties. She had short dark hair and a pretty face, but her eyes were reddened and bloodshot… quite obviously the news of her husband's death had hit Laura Petersen very hard. She was wearing a light blue blouse and an old pair of blue jeans, but most of her outfit was covered by a bright yellow apron with black smiley faces printed all over it. Next to her stood a young, six- or seven-year old girl wearing a pink halter top and denim shorts. Amanda Petersen very much resembled her mother, and it wasn't just because she also had short hair.

"You must be Mrs. Petersen," said Stottlemeyer gently, his normally stern face softening noticeably. Although he had quite a bit of experience speaking with the family members of those who died, there was no way to get used to or ever be even remotely comfortable with such a visit. He had learned, over the years, to do the best he could and content himself with the effort. No matter how professionally he behaved, someone with a tendency to react emotionally would almost always do so.

"Yes?"

The Captain held out his badge so that she could plainly see it through the still closed screen door. "I'm Captain Leland Stottlemeyer from the police department. Standing next to me is Chief Randy Disher and our colleague Adrian Monk. I promise we won't take up a lot of your time."

After studying Stottlemeyer's badge closely, Laura Petersen glanced up somewhat curiously. "San Francisco?" she asked inquisitively. "That says you're not from Los Angeles." She frowned with obvious disapproval and glanced down at her daughter. "Besides, I've already given my statement to the police… yesterday afternoon."

"We're working in conjunction with the L.A.P.D. on this particular investigation," Disher pointed out. "It's kind of a consultant type of thing…"

"We would really appreciate an opportunity to ask you a few questions," said Stottlemeyer in a very polite and sincere manner. "There are still a lot of unknowns, and we really want to assist the local authorities in locating the man who killed your husband."

Mrs. Petersen wavered for a few seconds longer and then relented. She unlatched the screen door and opened it far enough to admit the three men. "Amanda, why don't you go play with the Kenner children for a while," she suggested, running her fingers through her daughter's hair and playing with the blue clip on the side of her head. "Just remember to come back in a little bit – I've got cookies baking in the oven. You're welcome to invite your friends to come in for a bit, too."

"Okay Mommy," said the little girl. She eased slowly past the three men who towered above her and then ran toward the group of children in the next yard.

"Your daughter seems to be handling things well," commented Stottlemeyer, "all things considering."

"The women on my side of the family have always been tough," Mrs. Petersen responded softly, leading them through a small, comfortably furnished living room and into an even smaller kitchen. "All things considering, I've been surprised for years now that this didn't happen sooner. Devon had a past…" Her brown eyes teared up for a moment but she didn't cry. Instead, she waved toward the chairs neatly arranged around her kitchen table. The tempting aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the room. Stottlemeyer, Disher and Monk each took a seat and Laura Petersen rested her hands against the backrest of the fourth chair. "He just couldn't leave all of the bad days behind." She shook her head with disgust before her demeanor turned once again friendly. "Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee?"

"Oh, we don't want to put you to any trouble." Stottlemeyer smiled reassuringly and waved her off.

"It's no trouble, I was about to make a fresh pot anyway," insisted Devon Petersen's widow. She moved toward the coffee maker and grabbed the pot before moving next to the sink so she could fill it with water. "What would you like to know?"

Disher looked to Stottlemeyer, who paused for a moment before answering. "I guess we'd like to start with the people your husband associated with," he decided finally. "We need to know who he hung around with and anybody that had a beef with him… someone who had a motive for killing him."

Mrs. Petersen didn't hesitate with her answer. "I think the most likely place to start would be with Frank Lauden," she said, her complete and utter distaste for the man blatantly obvious.

"Oh, I can assure you… we are very aware of Mr. Lauden," replied Stottlemeyer firmly. "Why would you suggest him right off the bat, if I may ask?"

"Because he knows each and every foul-smelling loser in this town… _all_ of them," declared Mrs. Petersen in response. "Devon managed to leave most of his skeletons behind years ago; we worked through his problems together and things were finally looking up for us. We were never rich, but we had a nice time here at home… especially after Amanda was born." Her expression changed instantly from gentle and reminiscing to angry. "Then he met Frank Lauden at his old job. The two of them were working as security guards in some office building downtown in one of the business districts."

"Do you happen to know which one?"

"No, but I have a business card somewhere with the address on it. I'll get it for you once we're done talking." She finished prepping the coffee maker and turned it on. Then, switching instantly from one motherly task to another, she glanced at the old, red plastic timer counting down on top of the stove. Putting on green and blue checkered oven mitts, she pulled open the oven's door and removed a pan of freshly baked cookies. The aromatic smell of them increased substantially.

"Do you know any specifics as to what Lauden was up to?"

"I know my husband," she replied crisply. "And he told me just about everything. So yes… I know many of the specifics regarding Frank Lauden's friends and behavior. I gave the police who were here yesterday a list of names to check, so I would prefer not to repeat details that are already written down somewhere else." Using a teflon-coated spatula, she began scooping cookies off of the hot pan.

"No, we wouldn't want you to do that either," Stottlemeyer agreed. "Tell me what you know about Lauden and his extra-curricular activities. Did any of them involve your husband?"

"Not at first," she replied, her lips thinning into a tight line. She took a deep breath before continuing. "Frank pursued all of the self-destructive choices in life that Devon left behind… he drank a lot, he gambled, he showed up for work late. But he survived a very tough adolescence just like my husband did, so the two of them could easily relate to one another. Devon was really having a lot of success at keeping Frank out of trouble. He came home from work on a regular basis and told me about the things that Lauden would confess to him. My husband was able to point out to Frank on most days that jail was at the end of any illegal activity. So Frank stuck mostly to the legal self-destructive things, like booze and cards and finding ways to hustle someone for a quick buck." She shook her head again, remembering. "Frank would repeatedly claim that he was very close to making _the_ big score, one that would set him up for life." She turned her fatigued eyes toward Stottlemeyer. "But that old axiom always seemed to hold true. The things in life that seem like they're too good to be true usually are."

There was a strange look on Monk's face, and he suddenly stood up. "Excuse me for a moment," he told everyone. Before anyone could object, the former detective retreated back into the living room.

Having listened closely to Mrs. Petersen's comments, Disher studied her expression closely. "Your husband wasn't involved in Lauden's questionable, after-hours activities 'at first', you said," he pointed out to her. "What and when did things change?"

Laura Petersen folded her arms and really thought seriously about his question for a moment. "I'd say everything began to unravel about a year ago," she decided finally. "There was an opening in the security office at the zoo, and Frank immediately applied for it and switched jobs. His normally dark mood improved considerably and he claimed to have found a way to make a lot more money in a short period of time. That's when my husband started to really get excited also. They were obviously talking about the 'something big' that was happening, and he wanted to join in on whatever Frank was involved in. But he wouldn't, primarily because of me and because of Amanda."

"Did your husband provide you with any details?" asked Stottlemeyer curiously.

"A few." She turned as the coffee pot behind her finished its brewing cycle, scooped up the pot and began pouring the hot liquid into several small, white porcelain cups. "Apparently Frank knew a guy who was coming into a lot of money, someone who was about to become very rich. In return for some 'help', this person was willing to pay a lot." She frowned deeply and her eyes teared up again. "I guess you can figure out what that means."

The Captain nodded in agreement. "It sounds like something not completely legal."

"That's right. Unfortunately Frank stayed in contact with my husband… they went out for beers on a regular basis. Devon came home one day and suddenly announced to me that there was a second opening for a new security officer at the zoo. He wanted to apply for it, and I quite obviously knew why."

"So that he could join Frank Lauden in helping with whatever was in progress at the zoo."

"That's right. And no one pays out a large amount of money without being completely honest about it if it's something that is above board. None of us has to be a genius to figure that out."

"Thank you," said Stottlemeyer as he accepted a cup of hot coffee. His expression hardened with frustration as he heard a series of thumps coming from the living room. Suddenly he remembered Monk's abrupt departure, but he sat where he was in stony silence. He didn't want to do anything that would anger Mrs. Petersen, but Monk was obviously doing _something_ in her living room. _Usually when people excuse themselves, it's because they have to use the bathroom!_ He thought quietly to himself. Over the years, he had been through plenty of embarrassing conversations, with Monk's behavior often aggravating witnesses. The man could never remain still… he had to be constantly fixing or fussing with something. But Monk was always destined to be Monk, and so the only option left to the Captain was to learn everything he could before Mrs. Petersen also grew curious. So far she had given no sign that she had heard any of the noise from the adjoining room. "Obviously, you couldn't convince your husband to stay out of whatever Lauden was involved in," he guessed.

"No I couldn't," she confessed, setting a plate of cookies on the table and sitting down for the first time. "He knew I wanted him to stay with his current job, but he took the zoo position anyway. He told me that it was just to stay close to Frank, but I never believed that for an instant. If he would have just…" She trailed off, and this time tears did roll down her cheeks.

"I wouldn't have believed it either, Mrs. Petersen.

"If that second position hadn't opened at the zoo, we might have had a chance to stay completely out of it."

The Captain paused long enough to allow her to recover he composure before continuing. Beside him, Disher was jotting down notes on a small notepad similar to Columbo's. "Do you, by any chance, know who offered Mr. Lauden this sudden windfall?"

"No," she replied, lips firm. "Neither of them ever told me who or where this money was supposed to come from." Pausing, her mood noticeably soured. "But Frank was involved, so I _knew_ whatever they were doing was bad. And this may sound somewhat insensitive, but I was sincerely hoping that if anything bad happened it would be to _him_. I needed my husband… then and now."

"That sounds perfectly understandable. You were faced with a tough situation, Mrs. Petersen."

"You gentlemen should each have a cookie," she told the two officers, gesturing toward the flattened, brown paper bags setting on the counter. Each had been carefully cut so that they could be expanded to cover more space, and on top were several dozen cookies still cooling down from their earlier trips to the Petersen oven. "Amanda and I will never eat all of these, even if her friends stop by. But the baking has really helped me focus on the important things today… to take my mind off of other things."

"They're really good," said Disher with a smile after sampling one of the baked goods. "Nothing goes better with cookies than coffee."

"Except milk," insisted Stottlemeyer. "They're not really chocolate chip cookies unless you have a glass of milk to drink with them."

Mrs. Petersen smiled. "I could get you a glass…" she pointed toward the almond colored door of the kitchen's small refrigerator.

"No," the Captain replied, holding up a cautious hand. "I would appreciate it if you would simply sit there and tell me everything you know about Frank Lauden and what he got your husband into."

"That's about it," decided Mrs. Petersen. "There isn't a whole lot else…"

In the living room, the sound of a vacuum cleaner suddenly starting up drowned out the rest of her statement. Stottlemeyer rose to his feet immediately. "Oh for the love of Pete…" he growled under his breath. Chief Disher and Mrs. Petersen followed him curiously out of the kitchen as the Captain strode brusquely into the living room to confront Monk. He stopped in sudden shock upon noticing that both easy chairs had been tipped onto their backs along with the couch and love seat. Monk was busy vacuuming the exposed area beneath one of the chairs, cleaning the carpet thoroughly before lifting the recliner back into position. Standing with both hands firmly on his hips, Stottlemeyer simply shook his head.

"I wanted to finish dusting first," shouted Monk, doing his best to be heard over the loud sound of the vacuum cleaner. "Otherwise, if you dust _after_ vacuuming, you just stir up another cloud and defeat the purpose of vacuuming in the first place." Mrs. Petersen's expression was unreadable for an instant, and the former detective glanced at her more than a little apprehensively. "I hope you don't mind," he told her honestly. "On the way in I noticed that your furniture was arranged a bit oddly, so I took some time and straightened everything out for you." He pointed toward a small, adjoining room. "Your bathroom needs to be cleaned too… I'll do that last." Behind him, a small closet door was hanging open. Neatly arranged in a straight line and leaning against the door were the accessory parts to the vacuum.

"_Monk_…" As usual, Stottlemeyer was able to blurt out the name just before words temporarily failed him.

That was when Laura Petersen started laughing. And not just light, casual lady laughing… she leaned back against the doorway leading to the kitchen and roared with absolute delight. "A police officer who _cleans_," she said between loud, unrestrained fits of laughter. "I had heard that you folks from San Francisco did things a bit differently than the rest of us, but I never really expected… _this_." She continued laughing while Stottlemeyer and Disher simply stood there in amazement, wondering if they had somehow been shifted into an alternate reality.

"_Please_ forgive him," pleaded Stottlemeyer, wiping perspiration from his forehead. His cheeks were flushed with an embarrassing pink color. "Our friend Mr. Monk lost his own spouse some years ago, and he's always been an extra little bit… compulsive… about things ever since." He shot a heated glance in Monk's direction. "He's _supposed_ to have been getting better, but every once in a while he has relapses. Our trip to L.A. seems to have triggered a few of his… unwanted behaviors again. When all is said and done, he's really a good cop… bottom line."

Mrs. Petersen giggled in response. "Believe it or not, I really, _really_ needed something like this Captain," she informed him, waving a hand toward the snug, comfortable looking living room. "Unwanted behaviors…? I would think _not_. And he's very organized… I really like the new look. Let him clean… we'll finish our conversation in the kitchen and then I'll send some cookies along with you so that he gets a little something for his… effort."

"Are you sure?"

Studying the Captain's face with a final chuckle, Mrs. Petersen nodded and smiled at Monk. "He just offered to clean my bathroom!" she pointed out, eyes widening with delight. "For God's sake, _let_ him!"

It wasn't until they were back in the car, driving on the freeway leading back to the hotel that Stottlemeyer would speak to Monk again. "Honestly Monk," he said finally, after busily mulling over just how tactful he wanted to be, "sometimes you make me think that I should go back to anger management class! Your crime solving abilities are unmatched and will usually trump your negative traits," he said with a hint of anger, turning his head to face the man sitting casually in the backseat. "But not by much!"

Disher chuckled with more than a little amusement, but stopped as soon as he saw the look on the Captain's face. "Uh, you were _supposed_ to be helping us analyze Mrs. Petersen's testimony," he reminded Monk. "How could you do that from the living room?"

From his position in the back seat, Monk removed a cookie from the plastic bag that Laura Petersen had given him and began chewing on it. "Up until I started vacuuming, I heard every word she said," he replied a bit defensively. "She definitely wears the pants in that family, and it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to discover that she knows more than she's telling. That was _her_ family and she knew that _her_ husband was putting himself in danger. I don't see her standing by idly while allowing Lauden to pull him back to the wrong side of the law. Based on what she said and what we saw of her very strong personality after she caught me… cleaning, it doesn't sound – from what she told us – as though she did anything significant to try and protect him or discourage him from continuing. I have trouble with that… there has to be more she's not telling us for one reason or another. She would have tried to stop him."

"That was my feeling too," agreed Stottlemeyer, easing the Charger into the left lane so that he could pass a large, white panel truck whose driver was clearly in no immediate hurry.

"Columbo will have the list of names she provided," Disher noted. "There is a strong possibility that the person who convinced those guys to apply for zoo jobs will be on that list."

"Nevertheless, I would be extremely surprised if we don't end up talking with Mrs. Petersen again." Fully satisfied that the truck was far enough behind them, Stottlemeyer eased the Charger smoothly back into the right lane. That was when he noticed Monk in the rearview mirror, chewing his cookie. "Are you _eating_ in my car?" roared the Captain with displeasure. "So let me get this straight Monk… you're cleaning up the whole rest of the world, but _my_ car gets your crumbs?"

"It's not like that at all," countered Monk with a smile. "I asked the hotel for a loaner."

The sound of a dustbuster starting up in the back seat drew a visible grimace from the Captain. Both he and Disher remained completely silent during the remainder of their ride back to the hotel.

* * *

><p><em>Saturday evening, 6:15 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Slowly but surely, Frank Lauden made his way carefully out of the Lot 40 area, where the zoo's giraffes were safely penned. He had walked for quite a while, all the way to the northwest corner of the grounds, and was feeling more than a little bit frustrated, to say the least. After easily locating the knot-holed tree that Devon Petersen had talked about just before his death the previous morning, Lauden's hopes were promptly dashed. Despite a thorough, meticulous search of the entire surrounding area, he found no traces in the soft dirt and grass to indicate that something might recently have been buried there.<p>

He was not so quick to give up, at least in the short term. Lauden had patiently waited until late evening, and it was now only minutes before the zoo once again shut its gates for the day. With closure of the grounds imminent, most of the zoo's daily patrons had long since given in and started the long walk back toward the parking lot. Once he was certain that no one remained in a position to observe him, the security officer followed a hunch and walked over to the tree in question. He reached deep inside its knothole, feeling around carefully with his fingers. Not surprisingly, he found absolutely nothing during the search and a pervasive feeling of discouragement followed soon after.

Already the dozens of people walking the paths had thinned to a band of stragglers. There were still a few adults walking alongside small children, but most of the tourists had already called it a day. Those who remained fussed with the cameras and videotaping devices they carried, while the young kids next to them clung to stuffed animals or the string hanging from colorful, floating balloons. Lauden watched them coolly, having somewhat reluctantly accepted temporary reassignment to a day shift at Ed Mertz's prompting. The elderly security guard was still very conscious of the bandage that Lauden wore underneath the dark hair on the back of his skull. Old Ed was determined to give his injured colleague a normal work schedule for a couple of weeks, at least until his injury healed satisfactorily. "You need a regular routine for a while, Frank," the elderly security chief had insisted.

From Lauden's point of view, the new schedule actually made sense and he found himself completely comfortable with the change. A careful, early morning search of the main security building had revealed nothing, after all. He had waited quietly then too, until the police had finally finished their work and left, before conducting his own search that included the rear parking lot and the immediate area around the dumpster. If the police had found anything significant, there would have been no way to hide the news. So the diamonds he was searching for were obviously still concealed somewhere outdoors. He would need the daylight in order to have the best chance to properly locate them. An actual search of any suspected hiding places – were he to locate any – would have to wait until he was allowed back onto the night shift.

_What if the diamonds were no longer in the zoo at all? What then?_

Lauden's mind resisted the awful but ever present possibility. The thought was always there, lurking in the back of his mind. However, what he had told Mike Van Portman earlier still rang true in his heart… Devon Petersen had come on shift late Thursday evening well _after_ the zoo had closed for the day at 6:00 p.m. The fact that they had found the briefcase so soon after it had been moved was proof that he and Van Portman had acted quickly enough. They had caught Devon Peterson in the _middle_ of his attempt to betray them, before he could complete whatever task he had unilaterally assigned to himself. The fact that the diamonds had been removed from the briefcase was the _only_ problem – once the gems were successfully found, Lauden could resume his careful watch over them.

_And this time, a full forty percent of the take would be his, not a mere twenty._

Though Petersen had been married, Frank Lauden himself was a single man, someone who had always seemed to attract trouble. The few times he had ever even attempted to interact seriously with a woman and form a lasting relationship were days that were now very far in his past. Ever since adolescence, he had focused his attention more on the acquisition of wealth. Yes, women were always a desirable enhancement to daily living, but many of them were attracted only to the very rich. Thus he had always tried to kill two proverbial birds with one stone, and he did so by flirting with both the legal system and society's darker personalities, at times dangerously, each and every step of the way.

The passing zoo tourists, all of the colorful clothing, flashing camera lights, and especially the smiles on the faces of the laughing children –it all seemed like an alien world to Lauden. He lived in a world composed primarily of a monotonous work routine and low pay. Outside of his job there were only other men, piles of grimy cash, and a constantly changing mixture of drinking and gambling in the back rooms of smoke-filled bars. He couldn't remember the last time he had ever felt like a well-adjusted adult. In his mind he was simply playing the money game by _its_ rules, biding his time until it was his turn to climb to the top of the heap. Everyone, after all, deserved the chance to live like a king for a while, even if it wasn't forever. The transition from a troubled school kid to an adult with serious gambling and alcohol addictions had crept up on him so gradually that he no longer realized just how far he varied from the norm.

_Not until he had met Devon Petersen and his family, that is._

Lauden wasn't certain just what it was about his friend's wife and kid that had made him feel just a little bit better about himself. He could still remember the instant bond that he had formed with Petersen during their first job together. Petersen, too, had a dubious background and at some point had somehow managed to work himself out of a very checkered past. And in the process, he had found a woman to love and created a daughter to adore him. Hanging around the three of them, perhaps, had given Lauden at least minimal hope of evading his own painfully inevitable future. Once again, he was at least tentatively grounded, with a positive role model in his life and the possibility constantly dangling in front of him that he too might someday settle down enough to marry and live a relatively normal life. Unfortunately, he loved money far too much and his constant pursuit of wealth in various 'get rich quick' schemes kept cheating him out of what little he had. Worse, his gambling habit constantly teased Petersen, threatening to lure his friend back toward a lifestyle better left in the days long since passed.

The two friends had minor criminal records and were both repeat offenders. Thus, they were easy prey for a professional like Mike Van Portman. He was some sort of a big shot financial expert, someone with connections to clients who possessed the millions that Frank Lauden so desperately craved. When he had shown up and offered Lauden a chance – one single chance to score millions just by switching jobs – the offer had been too good to refuse. Petersen was a much tougher nut to crack, but in the end he had also given in and accepted the offer. Neither man made very much in terms of an annual salary. Petersen appreciated the health benefits that a full time job offered, but he also wanted to do more to provide for his wife and daughter. That was how he too had ended up, in the end, getting drawn into Van Portman's web of treachery. _He forgot that his wife loved him for who he was, not for the things he could buy her_.

Both Lauden and Petersen were approached and offered more than two million dollars apiece. All they had to do in order to earn the money was to simply switch jobs and temporarily watch over a briefcase full of diamonds hidden in a public zoo until Michael Van Portman was satisfied his embezzlements had gone undetected. Once the heat was off, they would each receive their twenty percent cut of more than ten _million_ dollars. For both men, stragglers who had lived most of their lives scraping the bottom of the barrel for seemingly each and every penny, the offer was simply too good an opportunity to let pass. As directed by Van Portman, they had quit their old jobs and applied for new positions at the Los Angeles Zoo. Up until Petersen's death, everything had seemed to be going just fine.

While walking leisurely toward the southeast, Lauden passed the kangaroo and koala cages. Natalie and Julie Teeger passed by him on his left while speed walking toward the main gate. He had no way of recognizing the pair, but even so he abruptly stopped in his tracks only seconds later at the sight of a familiar face. He stared with sudden surprise at the elderly, rain-coated detective waiting for him. _What the devil is HE doing here again?_ The security officer eyed the police Lieutenant warily, suspecting that nothing good would come from speaking with the man again. He had stuck to his story pretty defiantly, despite the usual prompting and leading questions regularly used by the police during their interrogation of a potential suspect. In this case, he found it difficult to blame them for trying to trap him verbally – he was, after all, one of the last three people to see Devon Petersen alive. Statistically his guilt in the matter was much more likely than innocence.

"Hello, Detective… Columbo, isn't it?" Lauden's thoughts drifted instantly back to the events of the previous morning, and he found himself suddenly overwhelmed by a sudden onrush of emotion. _Stick to your story_, he told himself silently. _Do not deviate from the basic truth. Just eliminate all of the incriminating details_.

Leaning against the hand railing of a small bridge that spanned the length of a small pool of water, Columbo smiled back at the security officer through a huge rising cloud of cigar smoke. "Call me Lieutenant," he suggested with a friendly smile, "or just Columbo."

"We are less than 15 minutes from closing the front gate," stated Lauden somewhat more bluntly than he had intended. Mentally, he forced the emotions – especially the urge to panic – carefully to the back of his mind so that he could focus his full attention on the policeman. "But if you're here on official business, I'm certain that old Ed will make an exception." He tried not to but couldn't help glaring at the cigar as he inhaled a deep cloud of second hand smoke. "He'll probably forgive you for smoking too."

"Really?" Columbo seemed genuinely surprised at the news. He glanced around at some of the zoo's visitors, many of whom were still pausing to take one last look at some of the animals on their way out. The various background sounds that many of them made throughout the day were dying down. It was feeding time and then bedtime for most of the zoo's stars. "I thought this place closed at 5:30 p.m. At least that's what I was told last night."

"Last night it did close at 5:30 p.m." Joining the Lieutenant on the small bridge, Lauden nodded. "We stay open an extra hour on Saturdays and Sundays," he replied informatively. "We also open a half hour earlier. These are our big money days."

"Well… I guess that makes logical sense." Columbo reached down and stubbed out the cigar in the soft dirt on the surface of the walking path. "As for the smoking thing… I really didn't mean any harm. I'm trying to quit for the most part, and it helps now and then if I light up just for a moment or two." He put the cigar butt in his pocket and chuckled. "I get in trouble for this," he admitted. "My wife always finds these things later, usually while sorting the laundry. It bugs her terrible… but no one allows smoking any longer so there usually aren't any ashtrays."

_Maybe you should actually quit then_. A bit nervously, Lauden reached up and fumbled with the knot of the dark blue tie that was adjusted just a bit too tightly beneath the collar of his light blue shirt. "What can we do for you?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Have you talked to Ed in the security office yet?"

"I spoke with him a few minutes ago," said Columbo in reply. "My questions, however, are for you and so he gave me permission to walk out here and wait for you." Glancing down into the mossy water beneath the bridge, he chuckled and shook his head. "This sure is a nice zoo," he commented idly. "The wife… she comes here a lot, to get some sunshine, fresh air, exercise… at least a dozen times a year, she stops by for a visit." He waved a hand casually. "But this sort of thing… for me? Well, I used to come here once in a while… but the daughter's too old for that now, so I just let the wife visit when she gets the urge to watch the animals. She loves 'em more and more every year – even has a birdhouse in the backyard now. She sits out back most nights and just watches the birds."

"Is that so?" Fighting back a growing surge of frustration, it suddenly dawned on Lauden that he was trying to speed the conversation along even as the Lieutenant sought to prolong it. He retreated mentally and calmed down, telling himself to engage in enough 'small talk' to avoid raising suspicion. The challenge proved to be easier than he at first thought it would be, more than likely because of the two million reasons he could think of that instantly convinced him not to aggravate the police. "I must admit, Lieutenant, that this has proven to be a very rewarding job," decided Lauden. "It _is_ nice getting to walk around outdoors and to see animals every day that most people rarely see. Lots of people would call this job boring, but they should try being a security officer in an _office_ building. That was my last job."

Columbo grinned from ear to ear. "There are days that I don't mind air conditioning."

"Yeah, but this is _California_," Lauden stressed. "In _Arizona_ you need air conditioning. Here… no."

Several bugs were chasing each other above the water beneath the small wooden bridge, leaving a series of ripples on the water's surface as they moved steadily outward. Columbo watched them silently for a moment, still leaning casually against the fence on his left elbow. "Well, I'll get to the point. I came here to ask you about your shoes, sir. Specifically, I'd like to examine once more the shape around your toes."

The oddness of the comment caught Lauden momentarily by surprise. "Ah," he acknowledged finally. "You must have found footprints out on the path yesterday morning." He stretched out his right leg so that the Lieutenant could get a better look at his foot.

"That we did sir." Columbo reached into the left lining of his raincoat and plucked out a large brown envelope. He removed a picture from it, what proved to be a photograph of a primarily grassy area. Lauden noticed immediately that there were visible footprints in the green grass, some of which were circled in red. "From what we've been able to determine, you are the _only_ person on the security staff who wears a shoe with a rectangular toe in a 9… maybe a 9 and a half. And yet you, sir, claim that you were knocked unconscious by an intruder that Devon Petersen let into the zoo without ever speaking with him or seeing his face." He gestured toward the red circles. "The footprints circled on the right are our mysterious intruder's shoes… I'm certain of that. And on the left…" Pausing to scratch his head, Columbo shrugged. "It appears to us as though we have footprints from shoes with rectangular-shaped toes in a size 9 or 9 and a half. And _that_, sir, is what I call a loose end that needs to be cleared up."

"Really." Lauden felt his blood pressure suddenly increase. Again, the temptation to panic teased him. _No!_ He insisted to himself firmly, refusing to give in to the urge. _Think about this as though you are completely innocent. React as an innocent man would react_. "I don't know what to say, Lieutenant Columbo. I swear that I was unconscious before the murder… could you perhaps be mistaken about the footprints?" He squinted closer at the photograph and found himself nervously scratching the hair on his own head. "How do you know for certain that my footprints weren't made _before_ this other person showed up?"

"The timeframe was a bit difficult to determine," admitted Columbo, his statement allowing Lauden a brief opportunity to relax just a little bit. "However, these two sets are deeper than the others and they're facing each other, as though two people stood together for a while. For example, if they were having a conversation, well then that would explain the matter right away…"

Lauden reacted with a quizzical look, feigning similar confusion. "I honestly don't know what to say."

Pausing, Columbo smiled wryly. "You do see the loose end? I think it would be highly coincidental if you stood in the center of Eucalyptus Grove for a time, and then someone came along later and stood almost exactly opposite of where you were standing for approximately that same amount of time." Again he shrugged his shoulders. "It could happen, but it's doubtful. And this is exactly the kind of thing that has a tendency to bug me… a loose end that tends to keep a guy up all night."

"I don't know what to say Lieutenant," repeated Frank Lauden in his most sincere tone of voice. _That's it_, he sighed internally, feeling slightly relieved. _Don't say too little… don't say too much. In the end, it's all about what this guy can prove in a court of law_. He handed the photograph back to Columbo, and the police officer promptly replaced it in the brown envelope.

"Well, this little detail kept me from sleeping last night," said Columbo with a deep frown. "And I tell ya… I've seen a lot of crazy stuff over the years, so I can usually manage to come up with all kinds of possibilities." He tapped his left temple with the hand holding the cigar. "It can be difficult, but I do my best to 'think outside the box', as the young people will say nowadays. I try to visualize, in my mind, the various types of things that might have happened."

"What did you come up with?" More than he had expected to be, Lauden was intensely curious.

There was another brief pause, just long enough for Columbo to stick the brown envelope back inside his raincoat. "I'm thinking that it is very possible that your Mr. Petersen may have let more than _one_ person into the zoo." His eyes focused intently on Lauden in an attempt to gauge his reaction.

Freezing his face and doing his best to remove any trace of emotion, Lauden nodded slowly. "I guess that is a possibility," he acknowledged indifferently. "But I wouldn't be able to tell you anything about that." He reached back and touched the still tender, bruised area at the base of his skull tentatively. "After I got hit over the head, all I saw was a dazzling display of fireworks. I remember a few voices… but not much after that. My head was spinning and I got so dizzy I almost vomited."

"I understand completely sir," said Columbo, so smoothly and honestly that it was impossible for Lauden to tell if the police officer was also faking sincerity. "Do you have another pair of dress shoes available at your home sir?" he continued, again watching Lauden's expression carefully for a reaction.

"I have an older pair that I keep around in case something happens to this one." Lauden chuckled without a hint of nervousness. "I always figured that in an emergency, I could wear the old ones long enough to run to a store and buy a new pair."

Softly stroking the bottom of his chin with one hand, Columbo smiled in response. "I would appreciate it if you could wear that pair to work tomorrow," he suggested firmly. "We made a mold of all of the footprints in Eucalyptus Grove, and temporarily borrowing your regular shoes would give us the opportunity to verify for certain whether or not the prints in the photo are in fact yours."

"Sure, that's no problem. I'll leave them next to Old Ed's desk at the start of my next shift tomorrow." Lauden felt a profound sensation of relief settle over him. For just a moment, when the Lieutenant had earlier hinted that the footprints across from Van Portman's had to be his, the security officer found himself expecting to be arrested on the spot. _You must have nothing!_ He mentally screamed, directing his anger-driven thoughts triumphantly at Columbo, all while holding his facial expression calm. _Go ahead and waste your time checking my shoes against footprints… it means you have nothing!_

"That would be wonderful. Thank you for your time, sir."

Still feeling a reasonable dose of anxiety, Frank Lauden forced himself to maintain an outwardly calm demeanor while watching the homicide detective slowly walk back toward the southeast. He took a deep breath, still leaning against the bridge's rickety, wooden railing. Slowly he allowed the anxiety to drain away, elated by this latest turn of events. If a Lieutenant from _Homicide_ was busy wasting his time on plaster footprints, then Lauden was virtually certain that the full truth of the matter was safely tucked away somewhere between him and Mike Van Portman. The clues that the police had to work with, it would appear, were apparently very minor ones. He exhaled a bit more of his anxiety with a sigh of relief

A family of three walked past the bridge just behind him. "Did you see Daddy?" asked a little girl in a flower print summer dress. Her pigtails flopped back and forth as she switched her gaze between mother and father. "They let _me_ feed the giraffe-eds."

"Yes they did sweetie," chuckled the father. He leaned down long enough to hoist his daughter onto his shoulders. "But the zoo is closing now, so we're going to have to call it a day. We can come back tomorrow, though."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." Their voices faded gradually into the distance, but Lauden didn't see them go. He was busy watching the bugs play in the water beneath the bridge, and dreaming of riches that most people would never, ever have the opportunity to see in their lifetime.

"Mr. Lauden?"

Columbo's voice caught him completely off guard, and Frank Lauden turned in time to see that the Lieutenant had doubled back on him. The detective was standing near the edge of the bridge, watching him curiously. "Wow," said Lauden with a gasp of surprise. "I didn't expect to see you there."

"Well, I'm really sorry about that, sir. I didn't mean to surprise you. I was walking back toward the security building and just happened to think of one more thing, that's all."

_There it was again_. Lauden felt a sudden rush of frustration building inside him, driven primarily by the resumption of a grueling, emotion-filled conversation that he had convinced himself was finally over. _This guy pretends like he's the most polite person on Earth, but quite obviously his behavior is designed to aggravate and provoke those he suspects_. "What else do you need to know, Lieutenant?"

"Well actually, I'm done with the questions. I just have an item of interest for you."

This time it was Lauden's turn to study Lieutenant Columbo's expression. "And that might be… what?" he asked inquisitively.

"Well, there happen to be quite a few other officers from around the country in town for a ballistics conference this weekend," stated Columbo informatively. "One guy in particular made the trip, someone with a reputation for being a perceptive genius."

Around them, Lauden noticed that virtually everyone had vanished toward the southern entrance. Soon it would be time for him to make certain that everyone had exited properly. "Will this take long Lieutenant?" he asked suddenly. "I really need to get back to work."

"Not long. Not long at all," promised Columbo. "I was just… impressed… astonished, actually, beyond belief yesterday evening." He shook his head, still feeling a little dumbfounded by the memory. "My whole forensics team had fully examined the _entire_ area around the spot where we found Devon Petersen's body…" He waved a hand back and forth for emphasis. "They went over that _whole_ area with a fine-toothed comb, as the saying goes." Smiling with what could only be pride, the Lieutenant's eyes sparkled with fire. "Then this smart guy walks in, this super cop, and he takes a quick tour of the area. And then suddenly – completely out of nowhere – would you believe it? This guy finds a _diamond_ in that fairy tale fountain the zoo has on display down by the main office building!"

For the second time that day, Frank Lauden felt his blood turn to ice. "A… _diamond?_" he gasped.

"And not just _any_ diamond," continued Columbo. This time he appeared to be completely oblivious to Lauden's reaction. "_This_ particular gem was appraised at one and a half carats, and retails for at least ten thousand dollars on the open market." He slapped the pockets of his raincoat in a maddeningly slow search before finally settling gently on the right pocket of his slacks. Cautiously he removed a tiny brown coin envelope from the pocket and opened it, tipping it so that a sparkling gemstone rolled into his left palm. He held it up between a thumb and forefinger so that Lauden could get a better look at it.

"That was in the _fountain?_" asked Lauden with utter shock and astonishment. "I must admit, people throw some strange things in there… but a valuable gemstone?"

Again Columbo shook his head negatively. "I don't believe that any of the zoo's daily visitors are responsible for this stone ending up in the fountain," he countered. "No… I think that this diamond is at least one of the items that Petersen and the mysterious night visitor were fighting over."

Mentally, inside his brain, Lauden was suddenly seething with a combination of anger and fear. The anger originated primarily from his memories of the previous night. Van Portman had ordered him to find the diamonds that had been scattered during the conversation with Petersen, and yet – in his haste – Lauden had never even _thought_ to examine the watery base of the fountain. He had thoroughly scoured the walking path in both directions with his flashlight, but not the fountain. "At least _one_… of the items…" he asked warily, his voice trembling a bit uncontrollably this time.

"Yes," replied a clearly pleased Columbo. "There's more. As soon as our guest detective made his discovery, I called the lab boys back for another look. They brought a black light with them – the ultra-violet rays from that type of bulb will often trigger a fluorescent property in many diamonds and cause them to glow with a ghostly blue color." He pointed due south toward Eucalyptus Grove. "We used the light to examine the fountain more closely, and ended up finding _two_ more diamonds!" Grinning from ear to ear, the Lieutenant slapped his forehead with his left hand. "Can you believe it? The other two are downtown right now, being studied further. But I can tell you, we've already determined that the three of them together are worth at least twenty-eight grand. This _has_ to be what those two men were fighting about. These gems _must_ be why Devon Peterson was killed Friday morning."

Frank Lauden barely heard him. The residual anger in his mind suddenly evaporated completely, replaced by an all-consuming fear of what lay ahead. If the police knew about the diamonds, then his ability to continue 'playing innocent' was destined to be a much tougher job than he had at first anticipated.

_Impossible even, perhaps._


	7. A Whole Lot Of Leg Work

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**A Whole Lot Of Leg Work**

* * *

><p><em>Sunday morning, 7:45 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>The sound of the wall phone ringing caused Mike Van Portman to glance up sharply from his seat at the kitchen table in the small, ramshackle third floor apartment that had been his home for nearly fifteen years. He had only been up for an hour and was busy sipping away the last of a hot cup of coffee while finishing off the remnants of a lightly toasted bagel. He rose instantly to his feet, eyes roving to his sports blazer and the silent cell phone contained in one of its pockets. Whoever was calling had chosen to use his home number. Any call at this point was unsettling… he had few friends and contact of any sort by someone from the police would be a strong indicator that they were on to him.<p>

He swiped the receiver off of its wall setting with one smooth motion. "Hello?" he asked curiously.

"_It's me_," replied a shaky voice that could only be Frank Lauden's.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Van Portman demanded instantly. "Do you have any idea how stupid an idea this phone call is? When the time is right, _I_ will find _you_."

"_If we keep the duration of this call under 60 seconds, you'll get a one minute minimum on your phone bill… you can always claim it's a wrong number. And I'm not dumb… this is a pay phone_."

"What if the police have already found probable cause and tapped my phone?" Van Portman scowled and opened his mouth to say something else, then decided to keep silent and shook his head with frustration. "Nevermind. What is it you want?"

There was a brief fumbling sound on the other end of the line before Lauden finally responded. "_I've been watching the news. The only information that the police have officially released to the press is the report about Petersen's death. But they know more than they're letting on… a_ lot _more_."

"I'm sure that they do," agreed Van Portman dryly. "And they're probably following you right now in order to learn even more."

"_No, no they're not following me. I made sure_."

"What do you want?" said Van Portman, feeling suddenly irritable. "Sixty seconds goes by fast."

"_One of the detectives told me that they found diamonds in the fountain… three of them_."

"Damn." The accountant shifted the phone to his other hand and glanced at his watch. "So in other words, they're doing a much better job of finding my diamonds than _you_ are." He smiled grimly at the awkward, clumsy reaction that he heard in response from the other end of the line. "_Find_ my diamonds," he stated sharply. "Then we'll have something more to talk about than the police." He slammed the phone back into its cheap, plastic wall base.

Van Portman fought off a sudden wave of anxiety and poured another cup of coffee before returning to the table. He sat there for some time, mind racing, unable to calm his troubled thoughts. A lot of things had gone suddenly wrong, and his dependence on Frank Lauden was a major problem. With each passing day there was a much more probable chance that he would never see his hard earned fortune again. He could feel the balance of control he held over the matter fading inexorably away. If the police had indeed located diamonds as Lauden claimed, they could only have come from the handful that he had swatted out of Petersen's hand. And that meant that Lauden had been unable to successfully locate them all in the dark.

_So what were the odds that this screw up of a security officer would be successful now?_

Next, his thoughts drifted to the hundred or so diamonds that were stashed in his bedroom. He hadn't dared to keep any more than that in such an insecure location, but it was better than trying to risk hiding them at the office. He certainly hadn't wanted to put all of his proverbial eggs in one basket at the zoo. Along with the five or so gemstones that he had retrieved from Petersen after killing him, he estimated that slightly more than a million and a half dollars was immediately available to him in the bedroom should the need arise to leave without the rest of his loot. It was enough to begin again in some other state, probably on the east coast, and live comfortably. Certainly, however, the concept of fleeing was a last resort… Van Portman had worked hard to accumulate the briefcase full of gems and he wasn't about to give up on it unless he was left with no other alternative.

_Nonetheless, the constant, pervasive presence of the police involvement in the matter hovered over him like a dark cloud._

Determined to be prepared for anything, he walked into his bedroom and retrieved a large suitcase from the room's small closet. Then he began packing everything he wanted to take with him should the need arise to leave quickly. He left the diamonds in their hiding spot for now. But he made certain that he prepared enough clothing and toiletries, so that he was ready and able to leave town at a moment's notice. The paperwork he had focused hard on over the past year was ready – a fake drivers' license and passport. All he had to do was show up in somebody else's state, and he would automatically be able to assume a completely new identity, social security number and all. Van Portman considered the plan to be his own personal witness relocation program, and he smiled at the thought of being so close to the end.

He located the hiding spot where weapons were concealed, and pulled another unregistered, snub-nosed .38 revolver out. This too he concealed within the suitcase, so that he would be able to defend himself when the time came to flee. The killing of others was something he had hoped to avoid, but at least several deaths had seemed inevitable no matter how carefully Van Portman planned his escape. So he had contented himself with the fact, and thus had been fully prepared for violence on the early Friday morning when he confronted Petersen. It was quite probable now that Frank Lauden would end up a casualty too. If Lauden was unable to locate the diamonds, then he would not have the resources available to him that would be necessary to evade law enforcement. That reduced him to yet another loose end that a fugitive-to-be like Van Portman would be wise to eliminate.

Briefly he glanced toward a small desk packed tightly into one corner of the bedroom. There were several different disguises locked in the top right drawer, including a bald cap, an odd-looking pair of glasses along with a fake mustache and beard. Van Portman had used them on many occasions, changing his look completely while walking around the city with a briefcase full of cash money. Even the use of cash couldn't completely fool law enforcement any longer, not with modern computer databases and surveillance cameras. Therefore he had made many trips to various jewel wholesalers over the years during his prolonged effort to convert cash into gemstones. But he had done so on each occasion with a varied appearance – no one would be able to identify him personally using the crappy surveillance footage available to the majority of businesses.

After thinking the matter over, he decided to leave the disguises and his make-up kit in their current location. Van Portman had already been seen while wearing that stuff, after all, and if he was truly to make a fresh start somewhere else then he would have to do so looking like someone completely new. A change of hair color and the rapid growth of facial hair would suffice for now, he decided idly. His real beard would grow rapidly and be mostly silvery gray. He was a practiced expert, fully used to altering his appearance. In fact, the major problem facing him right now was a decision – specifically, how long should he wait for Frank Lauden to find the diamonds? At what point would a police investigative network gradually collapsing around him become too tight to escape from?

_He would have to make a final decision soon… in a matter of days, not weeks._

* * *

><p><em>Sunday afternoon, 12:45 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>After spending much of their second consecutive morning strolling through the Los Angeles zoo, Natalie and Julie Teeger stopped at a snack station across from a small children's zoo in order to have lunch. There were lots of tables available, some of them setting in the shade while others sprouted large, colorful umbrellas from their midst in order to catch the full heat of the afternoon sun. Natalie was particularly hungry and chose to order a hamburger with everything, served on a hoagie with honey mustard sauce and fries. Julie chose a simple hot dog and a plate of cheese nachos, also pausing long enough to request a large soda pop that she planned to share with her mom. It wasn't long after they started eating that a dark-haired, female stopped by to meet with them. After ordering a sandwich for herself, the newcomer stated the purpose for her visit and proved to be an unexpected surprise.<p>

All three women were still eating when Monk found them. He appeared suddenly, emerging from the crowd with the familiar nervous look on his face that Natalie had grown accustomed to over the years. There was a partial fence surrounding the southwestern edge of the children's zoo, and Adrian reached out with his right index finger and briefly touched each fence post – one by one in traditional Monk fashion – as he passed by. "Hey! Mr. Monk!" Natalie called out eagerly upon noticing him. She waved him over to the small table where she and Julie sat with the dark-haired woman, using her foot to ease a chair out for him. "It's good to see you!" she commented with her usual enthusiasm. "Just look at you… moving through a _zoo_ filled with animals all by yourself – I'm really, _really_ proud of you!"

"So am I," agreed Julie. Her hot dog was gone and she was carefully picking at the remaining, soggy nachos on a thin paper plate.

"What are you doing here?" asked Natalie curiously. "I thought you'd be with the Captain."

Monk shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He was wearing a light yellow polo shirt and cream colored sweater vest with green and blue diamond patterns on it. "We're just the consultants, remember?" he said, sounding somewhat disappointed. "The Captain, Chief Disher and Columbo are all scattered around town, interviewing various businesses that deal in jewels. They're trying to track down the people who sold the diamonds we found. Two of them turned out to be from the same wholesaler, but there's still a lot of work involved in tracking people down."

"I would imagine," commented the dark-haired woman. "Especially on a Sunday. Are they bothering people at home over this?"

"I believe so." Monk reached into the pocket of his slacks and removed a small, open pack of sanitary wipes. Working with his usual precision, he carefully cleaned the metallic, iron arms of his chair and the table surface immediately in front of him. "Their schedule was full for the day, and they don't need me until everything is done. So the Captain decided to drop me off here and let me spend the day with you." Grimacing just slightly he glanced to his right, staring directly at the children's zoo. The braying sound of a donkey could be heard, along with the non-stop howls and laughter of children. "I'm supposed to bond with the zoo and its… _animals_."

Behind them a zoo employee with a bright blue short-sleeved shirt and khaki slacks passed by them. She was holding one end of a leash, while the other was attached to the collar of a gray aardvark shuffling along behind her. The animal's rather pronounced snout was roving back and forth while it sniffed the ground, casually sorting through the thousands of different scents dotting the area. Several families with curious children were following closely, and one small boy with a red punch stain along the top of his mouth was relentlessly asking her all kinds of questions.

"Would you like something to eat?" wondered Natalie. She pointed toward the nearby sales booth situated next to the restrooms and phones. "We could order you anything you want… they have bottled water."

"No thank you," replied Monk curtly. He glanced apprehensively in the direction of the departing aardvark before finally shifting his gaze back toward the dark-haired woman sitting next to Julie. She was older, with wrinkly laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her hair had obviously been dyed to hide the gray, but she still appeared youthful, her smile was enthusiastic and her brown eyes sparkled as she held out a hand toward Monk. He shook it somewhat hesitantly and managed a weak smile in response.

"Hello former detective Adrian Monk. It's quite an honor to make your acquaintance."

"This is Kate Columbo, the Lieutenant's _wife_," pointed out Julie. "She's our ride to the Handsome Stranger concert later this evening. Mr. Columbo wanted to make certain that we didn't have to rush through heavy traffic in a strange town." She held out a half dozen colorfully printed tickets. "Can you believe it? We get to be at the front of the _mosh_ pit!"

"I used to work for a neighborhood newspaper," chuckled Mrs. Columbo, clearly amused. "I still keep in touch with my former boss, and he just happens to have quite a few connections in the show business arena. So does my husband, as a matter of fact, although his contacts usually end up behind bars."

"Oh God, the _concert_," growled Monk, remembering the early morning conversation from the previous day. "I sure hope the Captain returns to pick me up by then."

"We can drop you off back at the hotel if you prefer," suggested Natalie. "You can clean to your heart's delight all night long."

"No, actually I can't," sighed Monk with a deep frown. "I got carried away this morning after finishing up with my room. Once it was cleaned to my satisfaction, I kept going… out into the corridor."

"Really?" said Natalie, raising an eyebrow. Next to her, Julie tried her best to stifle a giggle.

"Yes." Monk clasped the fingers of both hands together and set them on the table top. 'The maids took the matter a bit personally and confiscated my dustbuster."

Natalie shrieked with absolute delight. "They… _confiscated_… the dustbuster?" she repeated.

"It's _not_ funny," growled Monk somewhat irritably. "Aside from the iron and the vacuum cleaner, all I have left are the supplies I brought with me in suitcase number two."

Natalie shrugged her shoulders at Columbo's wife. "What can I say… the man likes things clean!"

"Mr. Monk, my husband has been talking about you a lot since you arrived in town," said Mrs. Columbo with a cheerful smile. "He has become a big fan of yours, and – as police officers go – that's really saying something. Usually it takes someone from the Hollywood crowd to impress him… detective work is normally very routine and boring for him." She chuckled lightly; more than a little amused by the back and forth banter between Monk and Natalie. "Normally he takes to celebrities, and he always tells each and every one of the legends that he meets that he needs an autograph for _me_… for Mrs. Columbo. The full truth of that matter is that _he's_ the one who has always been star struck. He just uses my name for leverage, until he gets what he wants."

"He also talks about you quite a bit otherwise too," noted Monk with a nod. "But I think it's more out of a deep fondness for you… at least based on what I've observed so far. I can always tell when someone loves and devotes themselves to their spouse." He smiled shyly at her. "Believe me; you have nothing to worry about in the marriage department, Mrs. Columbo."

"The ladies told me a little bit about your Trudy," she responded with sincere sympathy reflected in her partially freckled expression. "You have my sympathies. I'm really glad you finally found out the truth about what happened to her."

Monk actually smiled for once during a time when Trudy was the subject of discussion. "I sort of gained a stepdaughter in the process," he chuckled with a genuine light-heartedness. "She's really great, and I wish she could have made the trip. But she had to…" Monk trailed off suddenly upon noticing Natalie point just past his right side. "What?" he asked curiously, glancing down toward the side of his seat.

A large, brown- and black-feathered duck with a bright orange bill had managed to waddle its way over from the children's zoo. It was standing next to Monk's chair and expectantly looking up at him with dark black, beady little eyes, as though waiting for something. Julie caught on instantly. "He just wants a _snack!_" she shouted jubilantly, reaching across the table with a piece of her soggy, cheese-covered nacho chips. The duck responded instantly, stretching its neck out and snapping the food out of Julie's fingers while she laughed with enthusiasm. She withdrew her hand back to the paper plate and began tearing apart additional nacho chips. "Look Mr. Monk… he's hungry!"

"Hungry?" Monk stared darkly down toward their small visitor. "I'd say he's busy spreading bird flu, among other things." Slowly, he began sliding his chair gradually backward. "First an aardvark and now this? Aren't the animals in a zoo supposed to be kept in _cages?_ I think I read that somewhere…"

Natalie grabbed several reasonable-sized pieces from the sections of her hoagie bun that she had torn off her sandwich earlier in order to lower its carb content. She flipped them past Monk and onto the ground next to the duck. Happily, the creature leaned over and began nibbling at the tidbits she had offered to it. "Come on Mr. Monk," she teased, pushing her plate toward him. "Why don't you give him a little something… who knows, you might make a new friend."

After studying the large brown duck for a moment, Monk came to a decision. He reached inside his pants pocket and removed another sanitary wipe from the packet he kept there. Then he tore a small piece of tomato from the remnants of Natalie's sandwich and – carefully using the wipe as a barrier between his fingers and the food – he held out his hand. Almost immediately the duck snatched the food from his grasp and gobbled it down. "He even likes lettuce!" said Monk with an astonished shake of his head a moment later after feeding the duck a second time. "Who would have thought that a duck would eat _lettuce?_"

"Maybe he's a vegetarian," suggested Natalie with a smirk.

"I hate to be a killjoy," piped in Mrs. Columbo. She pointed across Natalie's shoulder toward a sign affixed to the nearby fence railing. "_Please do not feed the animals_," she read out loud.

Julie continued giggling for a moment. "I don't think too many people obey that rule," she decided, gesturing toward the duck. The feathery bird had abandoned them and was waddling, webbed feet and all, over toward the table next to them where additional people sat waiting to feed him all he wanted.

"Have you managed to get anything done?" Monk wondered suddenly, studying Natalie carefully. "You _are_ supposed to be working undercover, you know."

"We've done _plenty_ of work, we… hard working gals… have!" declared Natalie defensively, pulling a large notebook out of her purse and flipping through its pages. "I've even made notes on some of the zoo staff." She shrugged her slim shoulders and smiled wryly. "Everyone looks totally normal, except for Lauden." The small ghost of a smile faded instantly. "I don't know if it's because we already suspected him and I'm seeing what I want to, or if he really is behaving suspiciously. But it seems plainly obvious that he's looking for something."

"More diamonds?" queried Monk.

"Probably." Natalie smiled and stuck the bottom half of the green-covered notebook back in her purse. "He makes his rounds and smiles at all of the zoo's guests as though everything is totally normal, but as soon as he has even a few spare seconds alone he searches…" She trailed off for a moment, remembering. "We've seen him searching the grounds, the trees, the maintenance sheds, everything. There are even a few empty cages that are being cleaned and prepped for new animals. Mr. Lauden finds excuses to go in there too, usually under the pretense of casual conversation with the workers. But even if he's visiting with people, his eyes are busily studying everything."

"At first he was pretty good about covering it up," pointed out Julie. "From an observer's point of view, he blended in pretty well. But particularly today, you can see the anxiety in his eyes. He looks like a man who hasn't found what he wants. It won't be long before he gets desperate."

"I'll be sure to let the Captain know," Monk promised her. "The police will want to make sure he's off of the streets before he gets truly desperate." His eyes drifted to the tickets that Mrs. Columbo had laid on the table top. "Now, just who is this 'Handsome Stranger' and why do you like his music so much?"

Julie blushed slightly at the question, obviously feeling a little too old to maintain a crush on a celebrity. "I've just always really liked his music," she shrugged casually, although the thought of seeing a live concert had kept her going all day. "His real name is Steven Kurnelowski… he used to play country western music in local bars and restaurants out in the mid-west. I think he's originally from… from…" Her thoughts clouded for a moment, and she glanced up at the sky, struggling to remember.

"Missouri," Natalie coughed softly under her breath.

"Yes, Missouri," beamed Julie gratefully. "Mom likes him too. She just won't admit it because he used to do a lot of drugs." She shook her head with bewilderment. "But he went to rehab and he's sworn off of them now. And what musician doesn't have flaws? I think the bad behavior is a genetic defect… the same thing that gives artists such talent also exacts a price in return."

"Maybe it's all of those endless road trips on bus tours that get to him," suggested Natalie. "Or all of the willing groupies that hang around his concerts. Anyway, the man may have given up drugs, but he still parties like there's no tomorrow. Your _father_ was a much better role model."

"I _know_ that," replied Julie with mild frustration. "I just never get to do things like this on the spur of the moment, and I'm really looking forward to it!" She stared defiantly at her mother and pointed. "You're going to have fun too, and you know it!"

"Have you been to many concerts?" asked Mrs. Columbo curiously.

"A few," nodded Julie, smiling at the memory. "I also met the members of Korn once, but that was because we were stuck in a traffic jam on the freeway and I had to use the bathroom in their tour bus." She rolled her eyes at her mother with a sarcastic smile. "I've been scarred mentally ever since."

Holding up the six tickets, Mrs. Columbo smiled at Monk. "We've got _six_ tickets Adrian," she told him with a tempting smile. "Would you like to come?"

"Nah," replied Monk slowly. "For country and western I prefer Willie Nelson…"

"Yeah, because _Trudy_ liked him," objected Julie. "And Handsome Stranger doesn't do country music anymore… he's more of a pop icon, singing stuff that transcends a lot of musical boundaries. He sells a lot more albums that way, appealing to fans across multiple musical categories."

"There's still a lot of country in his music," Natalie countered with a small smile.

"All things considered, I think I'd rather go back to the hotel," Monk decided. "You ladies have fun."

Reaching over and borrowing Julie's soda pop long enough to sip from the straw, Natalie studied her boss apprehensively. "They took away your dustbuster," she reminded him. "So what are you going to do all night? Get in trouble? I'm not taking you back if you're just going to drive everyone nuts. You can stay with me then, because I get paid to put up with your shenanigans."

"I'll be good," Monk insisted comfortably. "I packed several cans of Lysol foam, so I can clean the restroom again. After that, the windows could use a good cleaning too… they're still kind of cloudy." He thought about the matter for a moment, frowning. "The maids probably won't allow me in their laundry room any longer, so I'll try and steer clear of them entirely."

"You'd have more fun with us," Natalie teased him.

"Thanks but no thanks."

Mrs. Columbo's eyes suddenly widened, and she stared at a spot just past Monk's right shoulder. "Adrian, I think you should turn around… slowly," she suggested calmly but surely.

Monk studied the expression on her face curiously and then slowly turned to find another face behind him staring at the back of his head. A pair of large, luminous gold and black eyes blinked at him from a whisker filled, wedge-shaped cat face… a very large cat face. Like the aardvark before it, this animal too was on a leash held by a female zoo employee. It was big, about four times the size of a standard house cat and covered with light brown fur. Small, dark curling tufts of black fur lifted upward from the tips of each ear. The animal was obviously a younger cat, but already its body was big and very predatory in appearance.

"Oh my _God!_" shouted Monk, leaping to his feet and hopping up onto his wrought iron chair. Although he was frightened, he noticed that some of the green paint was peeling off of the chair's armrests and reached down to pull off the cracked pieces with one hand while staring at the animal. "_This_ one definitely belongs in a cage!" he stated bluntly, glaring at the woman holding one end of the leash.

"Not really. She's pretty young yet," responded the blue-shirted zoo employee. "It's a very young Lynx, and they're actually very friendly at this point." In her other hand she held what looked like a plastic fishing wand. On the very tip of it was a cluster of feathers and colored balls. She waved them in front of the animal, bobbing them up and down, watching the Lynx bat playfully at them with one of its front paws.

Monk's gaze shot instantly to Natalie. "It's time to _go_," he stated tersely. "Look at the claws on that thing."

"Yes, it is time that we were getting back to work," decided his blonde assistant. She paused long enough to pick up her plate and Julie's, tossing both in a nearby trash can. After completing the task, she turned back to the table. The lady with the Lynx on a leash had moved on, but Monk continued to stand on his chair with noticeable apprehension.

"You obviously can't drop me back at the hotel until you're finished working, so is there anything I can do to help?" he asked her.

Thinking the offer over, Natalie nodded in agreement. "Yeah," she decided. "Frank Lauden spent most of yesterday and part of today on the western part of the zoo. Today he's been walking most of the eastern paths. He starts in the south and meticulously moves north until he's searched everything he can possibly think of. Because we've been here two days in a row, he's seen Julie and me pass by him a couple of times. If you could watch him on the eastern side of the zoo, Julie and I could let him loose for a while and watch everyone else to the west."

"I'll help you Mr. Monk," said Mrs. Columbo amiably. "That way you'll have a partner, and you can tell me more about Trudy. She sounds like she was a really wonderful person."

"She was," confirmed Monk with a sad, reminiscing smile. "She was the best."

Tearing off several sheets of blank paper from her notebook, Natalie handed them to Mrs. Columbo along with one of her pens. "Write down anything suspicious that you see," she suggested. "I usually wait until I'm in front of the animal cages. That way, everyone else thinks I'm just another animal lover."

"We'll be fine," said Mrs. Columbo reassuringly.

Nevertheless, Natalie shot a stern gaze in Monk's direction. "We'll be _fine_," he repeated with more than a little sarcasm in his tone.

* * *

><p><em>Sunday evening, 8:15 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Merle Bettenhaus scratched his silvery, mostly gray-haired head with one hand as he emerged from the back of his jewelry shop. He smiled wanly at the three men waiting for him, and then dropped a folder full of sales invoices that he had pulled on the counter in front of him. "Do you folks from the police force always work on a Sunday, Lieutenant?" he asked Columbo curiously.<p>

"You should consider yourself lucky," replied Captain Stottlemeyer using his trademark, gravelly tone of voice. "We've been at this all day… we got some of the people working for your competition up at the crack of dawn."

"Oh, I can certainly believe that," chuckled Bettenhaus with a mild smirk. He began sorting through the invoices in front of him. "I believe I found what you three gentlemen are looking for," he told them. "I'm a wholesaler, so not too many of my customers purchase smaller quantities of diamonds. Most of them want to buy gemstones in bulk and then have each of them individually set at a later date in earrings, rings, necklaces or some of the other end products that end up selling for a strong retail price."

Columbo removed a brown envelope from his jacket pocket, opened it, and took out an enlarged photograph of a man's face. "We're looking for this particular gentleman," he noted. "He has shown up on many occasions at other stores in this vicinity. He is mostly bald, usually wears dark glasses, and has a full mustache and beard. Even here in L.A. our suspect would probably stand out in a crowd. He is a caucasian male, and usually purchases his diamonds – up to ten or twelve at a time – with cashier's checks. Occasionally, however, he stops by with a briefcase full of cash."

"Oh, I very definitely remember _him_," nodded Bettenhaus with a grim smile. He studied the photograph carefully for a moment, just to be certain. It was somewhat grainy, and the color looked to be a bit faded, but the likeness matched closely with his memory. "Most of us in the wholesale business wouldn't generally sell to this kind of customer, but he was extremely insistent. He claimed to be a collector who likes diamonds – and when he stopped by with cash instead of the usual check, he always slipped me an extra thousand or two for my trouble."

"That makes sense," nodded Stottlemeyer. "Since you sell gemstones in bulk, I would imagine your bank transactions are for some very large amounts."

"At times yes."

"Do you know this man personally?" continued Columbo. "We suspect that he might live or work somewhere in this vicinity."

"Why would you suspect that?" Bettenhaus wondered.

"Come on, Mr. Bettenhaus," chuckled Columbo. "Even during daylight in a business district, any normal person wouldn't want to carry a suitcase full of cash very far."

"A lot of your competitors liked receiving cash," Chief Disher pointed out. "Most of them were pretty agitated by our questions. I doubt that they reported those sales, especially the extra dollars, to the IRS."

"I did," said Bettenhaus confidently. "My grandfather was a German immigrant who lived for a time in Southern Russia. I can tell you from the stories he told that those were not good days for him. This country offered our family opportunities that he could only dream of previously. I am an American, and I make certain to pay my fair share of taxes."

Studying the jeweler's overtly serious expression, Columbo smiled. "Please understand… it's not you we're after, sir. We have reason to believe that this man has been purchasing diamonds for his 'collection' with other people's money. Embezzling it and then laundering it, in other words."

A look of curiosity suddenly crossed Bettenhaus' thin, elderly face. "You mentioned my competition," he observed suddenly. "Has this man been buying a lot of gems from them too?"

"Yes," replied Columbo in affirmation. "He deals exclusively in diamonds, and has used both cash and checks with them too. Some of them 'charged' a little more than you do for cash only purchases, and being a smart business man he promptly moved on to other sellers. Whoever we're looking for is working hard to make himself rich, probably by stealing a great deal of money very slowly over time."

"Do you think he's a drug dealer?"

"Not yet." Columbo smiled grimly. "I know there is always a lot of that kind of activity going on in the L.A. area, but so far this looks to be a textbook embezzlement plot. Someone is funneling money into diamonds so that they can carry a small fortune with them, probably to another state or maybe even to a foreign country. Then they'll convert the gemstones back to cash and bank their illegally obtained fortune to keep it safe."

"Where, may I ask, did you get the photo?"

"Some of the other stores have surveillance footage dating back a year or more, especially the ones where randomly snapped photographs are taken instead of videos. I don't suppose you still have any of your video available to us?"

"No," responded Bettenhaus with a shake of his head. He glanced up briefly at the three overhead video cameras that were carefully arranged to focus on the various display cases in the front of his store. "I only keep surveillance footage dating back a month or so, and then the tapes are reused. I very distinctly remember this man and can tell you with reasonable assurance that he hasn't been in my store for at least six months."

"Thank you Mr. Bettenhaus," said Columbo agreeably while scribbling in his small notebook.

The jewelry store owner continued sorting through the invoices until he found one that he was looking for.

"Mr. Bernard Sitte," he read carefully. "This particular purchase was made almost seven months ago. He bought eight diamonds, totaling ten carats, for approximately $15,000. I still have a copy of the cashier's check if you would like me to make you one."

"Thank you sir. That would be very helpful." Columbo studied the invoice carefully and then held it up so that both Stottlemeyer and Disher could get a better look.

"That's the same fake address he used everywhere else," noted Disher.

"Could we get a copy of all related invoices too?" asked the Lieutenant curiously. Bettenhaus raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, but Columbo held up a reassuring hand. "We won't need them tonight… you can do that tomorrow if you like."

"I'll put it at the top of my to-do list just for you, Lieutenant," promised the jeweler pleasantly.

After finishing up their interview with Mr. Bettenhaus, the three police officers walked back out into the sunlight on a very pleasant, mild afternoon in downtown Los Angeles. Columbo paused for a moment to get his bearings, studying the various buildings along the other side of the street along with the signpost at a nearby street corner. Stottlemeyer and Disher were following close behind the Lieutenant when he suddenly came to a complete stop, eyes widening with amazement.

"What?" Disher asked immediately, his curiosity overwhelming.

"The guy we're looking for carried large amounts of cash on _multiple_ occasions," said Columbo informatively, slapping his forehead with one hand.

"Yeah," mused Stottlemeyer thoughtfully. "You mentioned that he probably works in the area."

The Lieutenant promptly began checking all of his pockets carefully, one by one. As usual, the business card he was looking for turned out to be in the last place he looked – his left shirt pocket. He removed it and studied the print on it intensely. "Do you remember when Mrs. Petersen mentioned that both Frank Lauden and her husband used to work at an office building before quitting and applying for positions at the Los Angeles Zoo?"

"Yes." Disher and Stottlemeyer spoke simultaneously. Now they were both obviously interested.

"Mrs. Petersen gave me a business card with the address of that office building," replied the Lieutenant incredulously, holding it out so they could study the fine print. "The building that she spoke of is less than three blocks northeast of here." His eyes were bright with confidence. "I think we've just found a good place to start looking for a connection to our murderer."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> This chapter took a bit longer than usual. Apologies for that. Summer is here and I've been busy with other things, like trying to keep my lawn alive during an all out heat wave. Also, the storyline for a detective story is much tougher than I anticipated. I found myself faced with several difficult situations, as I am used to writing science fiction. There are lots of detective stories out there... I was in a book store only last week. Virtually every type of possible twist and turn that can be done in a mystery has already been done. Thus it's difficult to keep coming up with something original. So I've done my best to set up a reasonable storyline with a few twists and turns, but my primary goal is to try and tell a really solid Monk/Columbo tale. Rest assured, my mind is never far from this story and another chapter will appear as soon as I am able to put words to virtual paper. That's my pattern... it bothers me until I get the whole story on paper and properly told._

_I absolutely HAD to sneak Mrs. Columbo into the story... played briefly by the wonderful Kate Mulgrew. One of the original Columbo movies took place aboard a cruise ship, with both Columbo and his wife on board. Even then she never appeared on screen... her husband explained that she wasn't feeling well or she was in the next room or something. In another movie, the vindictive widow of a man Columbo sent to prison tries to kill his wife, and yet we still never see her on screen. So I couldn't resist putting her in the story, since - once again - she has an actual presence but we do not get to "see" her._


	8. Handsome Stranger

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Handsome Stranger**

* * *

><p><em>Monday morning, 8:05 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Checking her rearview mirror to be certain that no one was trying to sneak in behind her, Natalie accelerated the Jeep that Columbo's department had temporarily loaned her and took the freeway exit leading toward Palomino Highway North. She guided the vehicle along a slow, winding curve toward west Los Angeles – and the very <em>rich<em>, luxurious residential area that awaited them. A very excited Julie sat next to her, and Monk was once again riding in the back, but in this vehicle he had situated himself comfortably between the two front bucket seats so that he could converse with the two ladies.

Natalie had risen early after Julie practically dragged her out of bed. Her daughter had absolutely loved the concert the night before, and even Natalie had admitted to herself that Handsome Stranger and his Deputies put on a good show. The band's current music was very modernized with only a trace of its former country roots, but the beat was good and the so-called 'mosh pit' had ended up being more of a very large dance floor. The house had been crowded but not full for the evening show, since most of the local L.A. crowd had, throughout the years, already been presented with plenty of opportunities to see a performance. The Stranger was famous for doing at least a show or two every time he returned to L.A., and he hadn't wavered from that tradition in decades.

"Where are we going again?" asked Monk curiously. "Not the zoo again? How long do they expect you to watch that creepy looking security guy without him getting suspicious?"

"No Mr. Monk. We're not going to the zoo this time… we're going to see Handsome Stranger!" stated an obviously delighted Julie gleefully. "Last night, Mrs. Columbo got us backstage to meet him, and he invited us over to his _house_."

Wrinkling her chin wryly, the mom in Natalie leaped to the forefront of her personality. "He _wanted_ us to come over last night," she pointed out. "Apparently the man has a tradition of holding a huge party after every concert." This time her nose wrinkled. "I wonder if he would have invited us over if we weren't both very cute and very female."

"_Mom!_" Julie glared at her mother irritably. "You're _not_ supposed to judge people without knowing them first… remember?" She waved a critical finger in her mother's direction.

Focusing on the brightly sunlit road through dark, stylish sunglasses, Natalie chuckled with amusement. "If you're right and I'm wrong, then he'll certainly enjoy meeting Mr. Monk."

Thinking the matter over a little more carefully, Julie grew suddenly silent and settled comfortably back in her seat. "So I you enjoyed the concert?" Monk studied her reaction curiously.

"_Enjoyed it?_" Julie turned toward him, all smiles, and held out her left hand daintily. "Handsome Stranger touched the back of this hand _five_ times. I'm never washing it again."

"Yeah," Monk replied with mild disapproval. "That's probably _not_ a good idea. You see, germs have a tendency to accumulate over time, and they can multiply exponentially once…"

"I thought you were better now," Julie said with a slight frown. "For instance, you sit in the back seat now and you never liked doing it before."

"Here's the thing," Monk responded somewhat defensively. "There are admittedly some boundaries that I have been able to cross. It's really fun to explore all of life's intricacies," he continued with a positive attitude. "I mean, who would ever have thought? Me… I'm riding in the back seat! I'm actually doing it, not just thinking about doing it or talking about possibly doing it at some point in the future. I'm riding in the back seat, and I've done it multiple times now!" His expression turned suddenly dark. "Now about those germs and their ability to reproduce…"

"Chill out a little there Adrian… I was just joking about the hand thing, and this will be fun."

Monk reacted by raising an eyebrow of surprise. He was not accustomed to Julie speaking to him in that manner. Neither was her mother, as things turned out.

"Julie…" Natalie stared at her daughter with a mixture of amusement and shock. "Behave yourself."

"I can't!" decided Julie with a loud laugh. "We get to go to Handsome Stranger's _house!_"

Natalie tried to suppress her own emotion and failed. "_I know!_" she exhaled with anticipation, leaning closer to the steering wheel before getting hold of her emotions. "He's probably the richest, most powerful celebrity I've ever met, and his music is still pretty darn good."

Staring straight ahead at the highway for a moment, Monk groaned audibly. "This is probably going to be a mistake," he concluded as internal warning bells began sounding in the back of his mind. The sight of both Natalie and Julie giggling like little schoolgirls was not exactly what he would call a good omen. "I should have stayed at the hotel," he decided, second-guessing himself. "There would be lots of peace… and guaranteed _quiet_…"

"Oh c'mon Mr. Monk," prodded Natalie cheerfully. "How often do you get out of San Francisco anyway? This should be a lot of fun for you too."

"Visiting a rock star?" Monk scoffed at the prospect. "Yeah, that's been at the top of my 'to do' list since childhood." He shook his head negatively.

Natalie slowed as the Jeep approached a 'T' intersection and studied the street signs. "We turn right here to reach Appaloosa Road East." She reached down next to her purse and pulled out a folded map, handing it to Julie. "If we drive on ahead, the sign says there is another turn off towards Appaloosa Road West. I checked the map last night, but I'm not sure it's totally up to date. So which way do we go Sherlock… east or west?"

Julie rolled her eyes at her mom. "Keep going north, take the next left and go west," she said simply.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because the Stranger told us last night that he lives along the _beach_. We're not even close to it yet."

Smiling, Natalie glanced proudly at her daughter and then accelerated the Jeep slowly through the intersection. "So… we have another detective in the family."

Once they reached Appaloosa Road West, the journey became immediately more interesting. The houses that they passed by began to grow considerably in size and scope. At first there were short, standard street blocks with slightly larger than normal houses situated next to one another. But it didn't take long before they began to pass huge lots of land with luxurious estates constructed on them. The closer they got to the beach, the larger the houses and surrounding land became. "How come cops can't afford these kinds of houses?" wondered Monk idly. "Trudy would have been so spoiled and happy."

"If you had a house like this, you wouldn't be a cop," decided Julie firmly. "You'd be a rock star, singing about cops."

It took them another twenty minutes to locate the special turn-off, an intersection with a handwritten sign stuck in the dirt, that Handsome Stranger had described to Natalie the night before. Once she spotted it, she drove the three of them across a short highway running parallel to the beach. "Look at all the people," gasped Natalie, studying the distant swell of the ocean and the beachfront dotted with vacationing tourists and locals. "I wonder what it costs to have your own private residence here."

They continued west along a badly paved frontage road, occasionally passing a mailbox with a house number on it. It was blatantly obvious to all three of them that the further they drove, the greater the distance between signs. "What do people do with all of this land?" wondered Monk. His question was answered almost immediately when he noticed what was obviously a vineyard situated at the base of a large hill. They continued on for another mile and passed a field filled with some sort of half-grown crops. On the opposite side of the road there was a large fenced in area containing cattle.

"Handsome said that the beach access is pretty limited," said Julie informatively. "He bought a lot that includes about a thousand yard stretch – he built a small bungalow there. But the bulk of his land is to the east of the beach, on the other side of the highway. That's where we'll find his house."

"Good, because I didn't bring my swimsuit," noted Natalie.

"Maybe you can borrow one from one of Handsome's groupies," Julie shot back at her.

Natalie studied her daughter with motherly affection, but her smile thinned noticeably. "Honey, I don't know how much you know about rock stars, but the reputation they get in the tabloids _isn't_ entirely false. You may get a bit of an education on this trip, I'm afraid. As a Mom I don't think that would be an entirely bad thing." She read the number they were looking for, 17072 printed in bold black letters on the next sign, and nodded with approval. "Here we are," she said, turning right and heading down a side road. They had barely traveled half a mile when the pavement suddenly ended. The Jeep continued humming smoothly across the gravel beneath its tires.

Eventually the dirt road led them through a thickly forested area, and the overhead tree canopy grew so thick that it actually began to seem dark outside. Several miles east, the Jeep emerged into a primarily clear area with occasional groups of tree lines scattered among a small group of rolling hills. In the distance was a huge home with a lower level composed primarily of bricks and a second story completely covered in long trails of ivy and other growing things. The top of the third level peeked out at them over a huge, massive stone wall that surrounded and protected it. The road they were following led directly toward a tall metal gate on the west side. Natalie rolled down her window as she pulled up next to the main gate, noticing a small guard booth with a single man sitting inside. The gray-haired, uniformed security guard walked out to meet them wearing a nametag that read 'Denny Hayes'. Natalie held out the three concert tickets from the night before, which Handsome Stranger had initialed for her – in red ink – on the back side. "I'll open the gate straight away ma'am. The Stranger left word that you might drop by," noted Hayes with a crooked smile.

Returning to the booth, Hayes buzzed them in. Slowly the barred metal gate in the center of the fence parted and both sides swung outward to meet them. Natalie drove swiftly through, waving and smiling in gratitude as she did so. Once they were through the main gate, she proceeded cautiously forward. Behind them, the huge metallic barred doors swung tightly closed once again. The Jeep moved forward along a rocky, dirt road that wound gradually counterclockwise through a massive grove of trees. The greenery was so thick that it was impossible to see past it from either side of the vehicle.

Monk said nothing, but Julie noticed that her mom's eccentric employer had leaned comfortably back in his seat. He was looking out through the windows on the left side of the vehicle, clearly studying the wide variety of shrubs and exotic looking plant life that also grew in the vicinity. Eventually the Jeep emerged from the trees into a wide clearing that stretched for at least two miles in any direction. The road they were on led directly toward the large mansion, completely revealed now, and it was quite simply one of the biggest houses that any of them had ever seen firsthand. "Oh my God," grinned Julie with obvious delight. "This is so great… I'm never going to be able to thank you Mom!"

Choosing to remain silent for the moment, Natalie steered the vehicle toward a medium-sized parking lot that was half-filled with cars. There were at least two long, black stretch limos, along with several bright blue and red high-end sports cars. Sitting directly across from the expensive sports cars were three huge buses, all marked with the 'Handsome Stranger' logo and colors. Other than that, the remaining two dozen or so vehicles looked to be models purchased from any old run-of-the-mill car lot.

"Hello!" shouted a twig thin, elderly old man wearing a limousine driver's uniform. He was busily waxing the hood of a bright red Jaguar, but paused long enough to wave at the newcomers. "Welcome to the home of Handsome Stranger. I'm Arthur Fuller, the Stranger's chauffeur and the man charged with taking good care of his personal automobile fleet." Smiling, Fuller tipped his cap at the trio before returning his attention to the work at hand.

"Where exactly do we go from here?" wondered Natalie curiously. "I received instructions on how to get to the main gate last night, but nothing after that."

Straightening up once again, Fuller flashed another friendly smile and pointed to a walking path at the edge of the parking lot. It was one of three, and the other two appeared to lead off into the trees somewhere. "Just follow this path here all the way past the shrub rows," he suggested. "It'll lead you right to the main entrance, and once you get there all you need to do is ring the doorbell. Someone will be along shortly to let you in. Don't hesitate to ask questions if you're lost… it's a big place."

"You don't look surprised to see us," observed Monk. "Does this guy have complete strangers drop by to visit him on a regular basis?"

Laughing, Fuller took a step back so he could size Monk up better, looking the former detective up and down. "You have no idea," he replied with a chuckle. "When the Stranger throws a party, he pretty much invites everybody. The only thing odd about you is that you're about twelve hours late."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" asked Julie. "I mean… even for a rock star with his own security?"

"Oh trust me," replied the elderly limo driver with a confident grin. "You may not see anything immediately obvious, but there are security cameras and guards all over this place. Trust me, you'll be safe enough, so long as you behave yourselves." He put his hands on his hips and paused, grinning from ear to ear. "Yep… troublemakers will get the immediate heave ho."

They left Fuller behind and followed the smaller dirt path until they reached a concrete sidewalk, flanked on each side by two rows of neatly trimmed, knee-high shrubbery. The sidewalk curved clockwise this time, toward the southeast. It wasn't long until they arrived at a large, dark doorway draped mostly in late morning shadow. The overhead sun was still rising from the southeast, burning brightly as it made its daily journey toward the southern sky. Once the lunch hour passed, it would gradually begin a slow descent toward the west before finally setting in the evening.

"Okay," decided Natalie, feeling a slight thrill at the prospect of meeting a celebrity despite her determination to remain firmly in 'Mom' mode. "Let's go meet Handsome Stranger and take a look at this place." She reached out and pressed the brightly lit doorbell button, and they could hear a faint chorus of chimes sounding from inside the structure.

Julie laughed to herself but remained silent until both Monk and Natalie stared at her. "It's one of his songs," she told them. "The chimes." She reached past Natalie and pushed the doorbell again. "See?" she told them while they waited. "That's the tune from 'Never Gonna Love No One Like I Love You'."

Listening more closely this time, Monk smiled to himself. "That could be a song from me to Trudy."

"Or for Molly," suggested Julie, her eyes brightening. "Hey! I can show you how to send a copy to Molly's computer and then she can play the song anytime she wants to!"

"Really?"

"Really! We'll do it right after we get back to the hotel. I brought my laptop with me!"

Natalie was busy studying the wall surrounding the door, which had been carefully crafted using layered bricks and mortar. Above, taupe-colored steel siding stretched upward all the way to the soffit and from left to right, broken occasionally by carefully framed, custom built windows. The overall design was surprisingly simple while retaining a definite air of elegance. And yet the overall cost for a structure so large would have to border on the ridiculous. They were close enough now to see through all of the ivy and plant vines that covered most of the upper part of the elegant home. Decorations from a variety of cultures dotted the entire lower part of the wall.

Despite the brightness of the day, the sun was primarily behind the house and shadows layered the front yard. "Take a look at that," suggested Monk, pointing above them toward a long row of lights constructed into the bottom of the soffit panels. Next to several of them were high-tech security cameras buzzing and whirring back and forth as they busily searched for any signs of unusual activity across the entire front yard. Each of them had bright red lights blinking on and off at the top. "Art was correct. Those look like the latest models and probably even have night vision."

Seconds later the three of them heard the sound of an inner door opening. The thick, heavy outer door swung outward only seconds later to reveal a slightly plump older woman, with chestnut brown hair accented with gold highlights. "Yes?" she asked curiously. "Are you the catering team?" She studied each of them carefully, eyes coming to rest on Julie last. The woman frowned noticeably at the sight of the youthful Teeger, suddenly doubting the veracity of her own statement.

Again Natalie held out the concert tickets from the previous night. "I'm Natalie Teeger and this is my daughter Julie. Mrs. Columbo introduced us to Handsome Stranger after the show last night," she explained eagerly. "He invited us to stop over, and I hope you'll forgive us for imposing but we just _had_ to drop by and take a quick look at where he lives!"

An odd smile crossed the woman's face; she appeared to be somewhere in her mid-sixties. "I think I remember seeing you there, although we didn't actually meet," she replied with a light chuckle. "Usually Steven's invited guests stop by immediately after his concerts finish," she told them by way of explanation. "It's unusual to see someone wait until the next day. You must _not_ be party people, because you've already missed most of last night's activities."

"No, we're not," interjected Monk, his expression completely deadpan. "We're tourists… come all the way from San Francisco."

"Well then, come on in fellow Californians," suggested the woman, stepping back into a spacious foyer and waving them inside. She held out her hand, which Natalie accepted and shook. "I am Mrs. Bernadine Scaribelli. I have been the manager of Steven's housekeeping staff for over 15 years now. Most people call me Bernie." Shifting her gaze, she shook Julie's hand next. Monk stepped back lightly and casually waved her off, an action that their newly found host appeared not to notice. She was accustomed to interacting with all kinds of Hollywood eccentrics, and it therefore took quite a bit of unusual activity to draw a reaction from her. Monk appeared, at first glance, to be completely normal.

They followed Bernadine into a beautifully decorated vestibule, with Monk glancing upward and immediately taking note of how high above them the ceiling loomed. The entire open area was larger than the length, width and height of most middle class homes, with several spiral staircases leading upstairs to the second level on the south wall. There was also a long balcony with a beautifully polished railing running along its length, and there were at least four visible doorways leading farther back into the bedroom area. Beams of sunlight were streaming in through an overhead skylight that was only one story in height. Its stained glass panels had been meticulously placed just far enough away from the roof covering the second and third levels. It was deliberately designed to catch more and more of the light as the sun rose higher in the sky throughout the daytime hours.

"Wow, just wow," decided Natalie, walking around in a small circle as she studied every detail of the beautifully decorated home. "Some of this engraved furniture appears to be antique."

"It is," Mrs. Scaribelli acknowledged with a proud nod. "Steven has toured the globe throughout the decades, and his fans in many nations have allowed him some very, shall we say, _unique_… shopping opportunities."

"Does your husband work for 'Handsome Stranger' too?" Natalie instantly regretted the personal inquiry; it sounded somewhat clumsier than she had intended. She watched Mrs. Scaribelli's reaction carefully. "We don't really know him well enough to call him Steven," she explained with a light blush.

"My husband passed away shortly after my second son was born, almost thirty-five years ago."

The embarrassment vanished from Natalie's face. "My condolences," she said with sincerity.

"That was a _long_ time ago, I assure you." Bernadine Scaribelli waved a casual hand to calm Natalie's suddenly rattled nerves. "Don't worry about things you couldn't possibly have known about," she replied reassuringly. "Actually, you are correct in a manner of speaking… both of my boys also work for Steven. My family is very much involved in assisting and perpetuating the careers of Handsome Stranger and his Deputies. My youngest son, Paul, is an accountant who works with Steven's financial advisors. And my oldest, Robert, is Steven's stage manager. The Stranger doesn't have a lot of family of his own, so we've grown very close to him over the years." She led them through a huge room with several large tables – except for its colossal size, it reminded Natalie of what would normally be considered a breakfast nook. "Everyone is out back by the pool, which is why I was expecting the caterers. Steven asked me to order out for breakfast this morning to give the kitchen staff a morning off."

Compared to the utterly stunning beauty of the home's interior, the pool area was a disaster. Loud heavy metal music blared at them the instant Mrs. Scaribelli opened a wide, carefully finished set of French doors, causing Monk to wince noticeably. The smell of salt air from the nearby ocean was mixed with the acrid scent of chlorine from the pool. Wet towels and a variety of pieces of clothing – both male and female – were scattered everywhere. The area around the massive, peanut-shaped swimming pool and its nearby hot tub was mostly wet, obviously from heavy use. It was very obvious that the party held the night before had been a wild one, and there were still at least a dozen partially dressed people lying fast asleep on a large assortment of lawn furniture to prove it. Empty cardboard beer cartons, partially crushed aluminum cans and an assortment of liquor bottles were scattered everywhere.

Staring at the four people comprising the small band on the other side of the pool, Monk shook his head and returned his attention toward the snoring, unmoving guests. "How can anyone possibly be sleeping through all of this?" he asked inquisitively.

"Lots and lots of alcohol would be my guess," decided Natalie, taking notice of all of the cans and bottles. She reached out with her right foot and eased a pile of empty, grease-stained cardboard pizza boxes out of the way before her employer noticed them and went ballistic.

"Oh my God… is this the type of music you listened to last night?" wondered Monk, covering his ears with both hands. "It's _awful!_" He glared heatedly at the four people in the band as though his stern look alone could quiet them. A fifth person was standing nearby, apparently trying to coach them in some unknown manner. At first he had waved his hands like a conductor of some sort, but that changed as they moved further out onto the large, mostly concrete covered pool area.

"Stop, stop _STOP!_" the fifth man shouted indignantly at the top of his lungs, growing even angrier when the music didn't immediately fade at his command. "That sounds absolutely terrible. I certainly hope none of you were doing drugs. I'll warn you right now – if you're high then the deal is off. The Stranger has zero tolerance when it comes to crack heads."

Someone in the band cursed, and Monk actually retreated a bit. "This is a bad idea…" he suggested. "Natalie, I've just gotten a wonderful idea. Why don't we go to the zoo today?"

Mrs. Scaribelli ignored all of the arguing and moved past the band toward the hot tub. A very powerfully built, tall man with a light growth of mustache and beard sat proudly in the steaming water, each of his arms wrapped comfortably around a different girl. His dark eyes sparkled, and the sharp, chiseled features of his fortyish or so face closely matched the same charismatic atmosphere that seemed to captivate most of the people who heard the name Handsome Stranger. He smiled at the newcomers, flashing perfect white teeth. "Well look at this, we have some more guests!" he said with enthusiastic delight. "I certainly hope the damned caterers arrive soon Bernadine, or we're switching to someone new next time. I'm hungry, and everyone else will be too once they wake up."

"I can get you something from the kitchen while you wait," suggested Mrs. Scaribelli. "It would be no trouble at all, Steven."

The Stranger harrumphed loudly at the notion. "You certainly will _not_ love," he snapped sharply. "Catering is an expensive business, so it is up to us as consumers to demand that they provide decent service." The dark look on his face vanished instantly, replaced by the infamous, beaming smile that crushed most of his fans instantly. "Who do we have here, my dear Bernadine?" he asked curiously, giving the newcomers a complete once over. "Ah… it's the two lovely ladies from last night, I see," he noticed, causing Julie to blush noticeably. Seated in a bubbling hot tub with a youthful blonde on one side of him and a very attractive, short-haired brunette on the other, he shifted his gaze between the trio. Monk simply stared at the entire scene around him with a skeptical expression, shaking his head in dismay at the overall, disastrous look of the pool area.

"I'm told Mrs. Columbo introduced you to Natalie and Julie Teeger," stated Mrs. Scaribelli informatively. "They decided to take you up on your backstage invitation and even decided to bring along a friend of theirs… a Mr. Adrian Monk." She waved a cautioning finger at the grinning rock star. "Behave yourself for once Steven, or I'll cut your pony tail off."

"Yeah, I'll be on my best behavior just for you love," replied the Stranger, laughing uproariously at the suggestion. "And you should know by now, no one comes anywhere _near_ my pony tail unless I decide to let them." He had just the slightest trace of a British accent.

Although the entire patio area looked like a scene from the aftermath of an adult porn movie, Natalie nodded with satisfaction. She had wanted Julie to see firsthand how celebrities really lived, and Handsome Stranger was proving to be a bucket of cold water on Julie's youthful fantasies. Already she could see her daughter studying the two scantily clad women in the hot tub with mild envy – the blonde wore a dark, two-piece green bikini that barely covered anything, while the brunette sported a multi-colored one-piece that looked significantly more appropriate.

"You're up early," decided Natalie with motherly interest, briefly glancing over her shoulder at all of the noticeably hung over people still sleeping on lawn chairs. One young man was lying face down on a towel dangerously close to the pool. "Did last night's party end earlier than usual?"

"End early?" Handsome Stranger repeated, studying her with interest and then guffawing out loud with unbridled amusement. "We haven't actually _ended_ it yet," he informed her, a fact that Natalie had already suspected. Julie's eyes widened noticeably at the revelation, however. She too was looking around at all of the carnage that an all-out adult party had wrought. Behind them, the four-person band began playing again, their music drowning out all possibility off further conversation until the Stranger stood up unexpectedly, sending water splashing everywhere while furiously waving them off. "_Take a long break people!_" he thundered angrily, ignoring the disappointed looks and frowns he received. "We have new _guests_, and I would like to welcome them to my home properly."

"Yeah, a break sounds good. We'll try again after breakfast," suggested the man who had been directing them. He was tall and thin and also good looking, sporting sandy brown hair and a boyish smile. "I'm Robert Scaribelli," he said by way of introduction, extending a hand first to Natalie and then to Monk.

"Yes, we met briefly last night," Julie said, finally catching her courage and speaking up. She stepped forward, catching Robert's attention and also shaking his hand. She directed her attention next to the Stranger. "Were you really partying all night?" she asked doubtfully. "What about sleep?"

"Sleep? Who really needs it?" the Stranger chuckled lightly. "I can always sleep when I'm dead, right love? Besides…" He jerked a thumb toward the attractive blonde on his right. "I did manage to catnap for a few hours last night before the band really got going. I woke up at least once with her on top of me, actually." He watched the bikinied woman sitting next to him proudly, appreciating her coy smile in response to his comment. Again, Julie looked troubled – her expression reflected a genuine mix of conflicting emotions.

"We're sorry we couldn't come to the party," interjected Natalie softly.

"Oh, but you _did_ come," countered the Stranger with his dazzling smile. "You came for the _end_ of it." He glanced across the concrete patio toward the still wide-open French doorway leading back into the house. "We're going to have breakfast shortly, and you're all invited." He had been carefully giving Natalie and Julie a thorough once over, blatantly admiring the two attractive ladies without reservation. Normally Natalie would have been offended by someone so obviously 'checking her out', but somehow the Stranger's honest appreciation of her beauty failed to trigger a negative reaction.

"Is this what your bus looks like when you're on tour?" asked Natalie, suddenly feeling no fear. She waved an arm in the general direction of the litter-filled pool area.

"Yes, except that all of the garbage you see here would be crammed tightly between empty seats." The Stranger's gaze drifted next to Monk, and a curious expression crossed his sharp-lined features. "I don't remember you… were you also in attendance at the show last night?"

"No, actually I wasn't," replied Monk, doing everything he could not to cringe at the chaotic mess covering the patio. Despite Natalie's best effort, he had noticed the empty pizza boxes, along with quite a bit more. "I'm Adrian Monk, a former detective from the San Francisco police department."

"A detective you say?" The Stranger appeared intrigued.

"Former detective," Monk corrected him. "I'm more of a consultant now." He smiled shyly at the pair of swim-suited women, trying his best to maintain eye contact. "They call me now and then, and I consult."

"Aren't the regular police sufficient?"

"Normally." Natalie smiled at the singer's confusion. "Mr. Monk is kind of special. He's got a photographic memory and a unique ability to 'connect the dots' with forensic evidence in a way that few other people can."

"That sounds astonishing," Handsome Stranger studied Monk with renewed interest. "A photographic memory you say? I've never met anyone like that. You sound like a fascinating person!"

Monk smiled wanly. "It's a gift," he said slowly, "and a curse."

"Well, let's test this out!" decided the Stranger. He pointed toward the band instruments and the spot where the people playing them had only recently vacated. "How many members of that band were female?" he asked curiously. "Can you remember that?"

Glancing hesitantly at Natalie, Monk shrugged in response to her encouraging smile. "Two."

"Really? And how did you manage to make _that_ determination?"

"The woman on keyboards was blatantly obvious… she's wearing make-up and a skirt. The drummer was a bit more difficult to distinguish, because her head was bent over so much while she was pounding… umm, playing. However, I noticed a purse sitting next to the bass drum that could only be hers."

The Stranger was not yet impressed. "Remember, this is _Los Angeles_ Adrian Monk. Lots of men carry purses these days." He waved a hand casually. "Or in many cases, at least something that often looks remarkably similar."

"This particular purse had a pink breast cancer ribbon clipped to it."

"Amazing! You're simply amazing Adrian Monk! Think of all the fun we could have with this man!" Handsome Stranger stood up again and stepped completely out of the hot tub, this time reaching for a towel. He began to dot away the running beads of moisture on his hair-covered chest. "All right. How about another challenge?"

With the topic of discussion fully in his familiar ballpark, Monk's confidence was sky high. "Ask me anything," he said boldly.

"You've gotten only a quick look at Bernadine's son Robert, who is now standing behind you. Did you perhaps notice anything unusual about _him?_"

Monk hesitated for a moment, suddenly unsure of just how much he should reveal about his secret weapon. Natalie flashed another friendly smile his way. "Go ahead Mr. Monk," she prodded. "_Show_ him."

"The ring finger on Mr. Scaribelli's right hand is slightly longer than his middle finger," noted Monk confidently. "With most males, it's usually the other way around. Also, females sometimes have a ring finger longer than their index finger, but it's a rare situation to find someone with _any_ finger longer than the middle one." He paused, searching his memory for additional details. "There is also the bottom part of a tattoo poking out of the bottom of his left shirt sleeve. Based on the red and blue ink and what little I saw of it, I'd guess that it's probably an English or United States flag."

Removing the towel from his freshly scrubbed head, Handsome Stranger gestured toward Robert Scaribelli. "Step forward Robert," he instructed with genuine interest. "Let's see that right hand of yours."

Scaribelli promptly complied with the request, allowing everyone to take a closer look at the unusual length of his ring finger. "My left hand is the same way," he stated, holding it up next to the right. "I don't know what sort of recessive gene kicked in, but my hands have been that way since birth. Paul's hands are completely normal looking. Mr. Monk is also correct about the tattoo," he continued. "I have an American flag tattooed on my left shoulder, right beneath a soaring eagle." Pulling up his left shirt sleeve, he showed everyone the entire image.

"Bravo Mr. Monk! Bravo! You are a bit of an artist yourself, it would seem." The Stranger applauded enthusiastically in response to what he had just seen and heard.

Monk's mood dimmed just slightly. "Unfortunately, forensics doesn't pay nearly as well as music contracts." He glanced back at the French doorway leading into the massive house. "You've done very well for yourself, Mr. Stranger."

"And _that_ is why I have all of these parties," declared the Stranger emphatically. "In this great country and around the world, there are far too many people who slave away, day after treacherous day. Most of them will never get anything close to the appreciation they deserve. So I've made it my goal, as I wander across this great nation and God's green Earth, to bring a special light into as many lives as I can. God has blessed me, even after I made treacherous mistakes early in life. I intend to be grateful, and help others."

Both of the ladies he had been sitting with also finished toweling themselves dry. Monk was doing his best to avert his eyes, but Handsome Stranger watched the ladies with unrestrained male appreciation.

"We have to go," said the woman in the green bikini. Her long, flowing blonde hair was wet at the tips.

"No breakfast for you ladies?" Handsome Stranger looked truly disappointed at the prospect of their impending departure. "The bloody caterers are sure to be here at any time. I called hours ago."

"We both work at a nearby… bar," said the other woman cautiously, eyeing the youthful Julie as she spoke. "But we had a wonderful time last night at your party. Thank you for all of your hospitality Steven. We'll be sure and catch your next concert!"

"Well okay then." The Stranger promptly leaned down and pulled several bundles of $20 bills out of a large canvas duffel bag, tossing a stack of money to each of the girls. "Have yourselves a wonderful day then, ladies. This should cover cab fare and leave plenty for each of you to buy something nice." He watched the two of them walk away, infatuated by their curvy figures and the ample display of near naked flesh. "I completely forgot to ask them for their names," he breathed softly, then turned back to the others. "Oh well, it's probably best this way."

Julie was completely taken aback, but surprisingly not by jealousy of the Stranger's unrestrained attention toward the women. "You have a duffel bag full of _cash?_" she gasped incredulously.

Her mother was even more astounded. "And you _pay_ your guests?"

Handsome Stranger grinned charismatically at both of them. "You bet your cute little bottoms I do," he informed them with relish. "How do you think I paid for three different deliveries of pizza and one delivery of Chinese food last night? How else would most of the backstage guests from my concerts get home? After all, most of them rode over here along with my entourage right after the concert." He picked up the partially emptied blue duffel bag with one hand and continued tossing bundles of $20 bills toward the inert forms of the still sleeping guests. "Everyone I invite gets a rocking good time, cab fare and a lifetime memory out of this deal," he stated imperiously. "As a celebrity, that's the best thing I can do for someone… give them a memory that makes them feel wonderful. It makes me feel good too."

"But that much cash…" Natalie's eyes were still wide. "And paying those women is kind of illegal…"

"Not unless they choose to favor me with their charms," grinned the Stranger, shaking his head in response. "Unfortunately for me, neither of them chose to do so. I freely admit to being a complete chauvinistic pig when I was younger… now I'm simply looking for a soul mate. Tough to do, considering the type of people I interact with and my position in the community. Most potential mates are only after my money. Trust me, some of these people you see sleeping here might turn around and sue me tomorrow even if I provide cab fare." His last bundle of twenties landed right next to the head of the man sleeping face down by the pool.

"But you shouldn't carry that much cash around," insisted Natalie. "It makes you a target. Caterers and other businesses will set up an account for you."

"And there is lots of trouble to be found if I decide to fire them on the spot then, right love?"

"Your guests may need cab fare, but not… not a _trust_ fund." Natalie frowned with disapproval.

Robert Scaribelli laughed at her reaction. "I assure you, this place is totally secured," he informed her. "Between security personnel, video surveillance camera systems, high fences and redundant alarm systems, this place is completely safe." He watched mother and daughter for a moment longer, amused by their discomfort. "Please excuse me," he said after a moment's pause. "I have to check on my band members and make sure they're behaving themselves." That said, he retreated back into the house.

"I hope those band members aren't using… they sounded terrible. Too many people think I'm still a drug addict," growled the Stranger irritably. "I seem to attract them like flies, for some odd reason."

Julie laughed out loud. "Could it be because of your dark past?" she asked curiously. "Or perhaps your involvement with the celebrity-driven music industry has something to do with it, or maybe your enormous wealth?"

"You are your mother's daughter, aren't you?" replied the Stranger a bit defensively. "Not afraid to call them like you see them, eh?"

Pointing in the direction that Mr. Scaribelli had gone, Monk's expression grew curious. "Were those your 'Deputies' that were playing earlier?" he asked inquisitively. "Because I've seen deputies before, and those people looked nothing like deputies. In fact, they looked more like acid rock addicts."

"Yet another one of my traditions to the working class, Adrian Monk," countered the Stranger, tossing the duffel bag next to the hot tub and folding his arms confidently in front of him. "Many of the people I invite to my parties are musicians. I usually have local singers and bands scheduled to play. Robert books many of them ahead of time for most of my parties. We're always losing a backup singer or musician here and there… believe it or not, people have actually _left _me over the years in pursuit of other life goals."

"Only _one_ of your current Deputies is an original," pointed out Julie. "Marshall Faller. All the rest of them have gotten married or gone on to do other things."

"This is how I recruit new folks," explained the Stranger. "If I like someone, I may take them along on my next road trip and see how they do. Sometimes I like the entire band and give them a shot opening for me."

Mrs. Scaribelli abruptly poked her head out of the French doorway and waved at them. "The caterers are here!" she informed everyone.

"Good. Wonderful. Let's all go eat breakfast lad and ladies," suggested Handsome Stranger affably. He picked up the duffel bag once again and hefted it carefully before turning toward Bernadine. "You'd better wake up that other son of yours," he told her with a cocky smile. "We're going to need more cash before the day is out, I would think. I still have to pay the caterers and that wreck of a band."

"I'll let him know Steven."

As he moved toward the indoors, Natalie grabbed the Stranger by his left arm and pulled him to an abrupt halt. "What about all of these hung over people?" she asked mischievously. "Wouldn't some breakfast and hot coffee do them some good?"

"They're on their own," replied the Stranger with his flashy smile. "It's best to let them wake up on their own terms. I always have the caterers set out a buffet, so they can eat after they've woken up a bit more." He chuckled with amusement. "You know the drill. If they didn't know when to say when, many of them may still need a few hours to… purge their demons."

"_Mom!_" hissed Julie suddenly, causing Natalie to release her grip on the Stranger's arm. "Are those two naked?" She pointed toward a couple still locked tightly together and sleeping on a lawn chair at the far end of the pool. "Because from this angle I'd say they _look_ pretty much naked!"

"Darn near anyway," decided Natalie, after taking a closer look.

"Normally I tell them to take that stuff upstairs to one of the bedrooms," chuckled the Stranger, his reckless enthusiasm fully on display. "They must've passed out while I was catnapping."

"Just how wild do these parties of yours get?" Natalie asked him, point blank.

"All legal party behavior is none of my business," replied their host bluntly. "If I catch someone drunkenly annoying others, they're immediately shown the door. We also kick out anyone with drugs of any kind… I am determined at some point in the near future to start a campaign of some sort against that kind of thing. Drugs destroy lives. They nearly destroyed mine and I've lost several friends because of those damned things." He smirked at her motherly expression, which was admittedly a bit disapproving and judgmental. "Come on love, let's go get something to eat. Then I'll personally give you, your daughter, _and_ Adrian Monk a complete tour of my home."

"I'm not hungry," said Monk unexpectedly. "I think I'll hang around here and, you know, gel."

Natalie rolled her eyes. "You're going to clean up the patio, aren't you?"

"Not necessarily," replied Monk defensively. "Although I might, at some point, decide to pick up a pizza box here or there." He turned to face the Stranger. "You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of Windex or maybe even a complete cleaning cart setting around nearby, would you?"

Handsome Stranger looked completely surprised. Stunned.

"Come on Mr. Monk," hissed Natalie, grabbing him firmly by the arm. "Let's not be _rude_ to our _host_." She shrugged at the Stranger. "He likes things clean and organized… it's kind of his thing."

"Of course he does."

Julie's face was flushed with red tinges of embarrassment for a moment, until the Stranger walked over and offered her his arm. "May I?" he asked her in his most regal, polite tone of voice.

"You may," responded Julie with barely contained excitement.

She turned and smiled at her mother as the four of them walked back toward the house, and Natalie knew instantly by reading her daughter's glowing, overwhelmed expression that Handsome Stranger had just given Julie the gift of a lifetime memory.

_Maybe this guy isn't so bad after all_, she thought silently.


	9. Murder: Evil In Its Purest Form

_**Author's Notes:** A very special 'THANK YOU' to The Desert Fox for consistently submitting feedback. I really appreciate it, as my stories normally do not receive a large number of reviews. If you weren't an 'anonymous' reviewer, I would PM you personally. So this shout out is just to let you know that I sincerely appreciate reading your comments!_

* * *

><p><strong>Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo<strong>

**Murder: Evil In Its Purest Form**

* * *

><p><em>Monday afternoon, 1:05 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Paul Scaribelli drove his sleek, silver Cadillac Escalade onto the Los Angeles freeway entrance with a confidence and grim determination that he had not felt for a long time. Oh, he had had more than a few suspicions over the years, but until today he had never held positive proof. Paul was Bernadine Scaribelli's youngest son and had worked for Handsome Stranger and his Deputies for almost as long as his older brother Robert. He was an introvert, a shy, thin, sandy-haired youthful-looking man who kept mostly to himself and studied numbers for a living.<p>

Robert's skills, in comparison, were mostly social and enabled him to effectively manage a band and the necessary accompanying equipment for a major stage show. For a large portion of each year both Robert and Paul were on the road, touring the country – and sometimes the globe – with Handsome Stranger's band. Paul spent the vast majority of his time keeping in careful contact with the Stranger's many investment advisors, since the band's financial needs varied widely based on the astonishing number of unique destinations to which it regularly traveled. Sometimes they needed to purchase all kinds of things to make a stage look sensational, or request additional funds for the spectacular, lavish parties that the Stranger was infamous for hosting afterwards. And then there were the smaller venues where their entire line of buses could blow in and out in less than a day, like a passing dust storm through a ghost town.

The Stranger's fortune was vast, most of it invested in a diverse portfolio of stocks, bonds, mutual funds, precious metals – a little bit of everything if you were permitted to look close enough. Over the decades, his album sales had generated a massive treasure trove of assets, with more revenue flowing in with each passing day. Residuals from ongoing album sales, concert revenue along with income from both print and television advertising… the money flowing into the Stranger's bank accounts never seemed to stop. By and large, this was the primary reason why the singer spared no expense while entertaining his guests – barring sheer stupidity, he quite literally had managed to accumulate more wealth than any one man could possibly spend in a single lifetime.

Therefore the entertainer known as Handsome Stranger was never short of cash, even with his luxurious estate, beachfront condo and several additional homes strategically located in foreign countries. Unfortunately, such affluence was also too much for any one individual to manage. During the early days when the money train had initially begun to roll ahead at full steam, the Stranger had reluctantly hired a team of well-known L.A. investment counselors to watch over his portfolio. But he was no fool, and he had also assigned Paul Scaribelli to carefully watch over the investors and protect his interests. "Be mindful of them but wary as well," he cautioned Bernadine's son, who was fresh out of college and eager to please. "Even the most loyal people can be tempted by greed. If they lie to you it will be tough to spot."

Fortunately the Stranger was himself quite capable of watching over things, as young Paul had yet to gain experience. Even though much of his time was spent touring and entertaining in distant cities, from the beginning Steven Kurnelowski molded his investment counselors into a team that checked and balanced each other. None of them knew for certain which peer was a fellow employee and which was a trained auditor or trusted ally. Further, much of their work overlapped, meaning that someone trying to skim profits away from the larger transactions might be caught by another who examined the same statements and paid close attention to the bottom line. The Stranger was famous for firing people who provided shoddy service, after all, and as a result his investment team changed members over the decades almost as quickly as his cadre of Deputies did.

The Cadillac surged ahead with a roar on the freeway while Paul continued to reflect nostalgically back to his past. The first ten years or so had been the toughest, truly an educational experience for him. Simply managing the Stranger's daily financial needs had proven to be a full time job – the rest of the portfolio had simply sat and waited, carefully invested and managed by the financial team. There had been a lot less cash to work with back then, when the band's spending habits were still reasonably frugal. Experience was always the best teacher, and Paul had benefited greatly from two decades of it. These days he spent most of his time communicating back and forth with the financial analysts, carefully monitoring and regulating their activities. His old job of managing the Stranger's personal finances was now merely the tip of the iceberg – he put in more than sixty hours a week trying to keep Handsome Stranger filthy rich while the PR team struggled to keep him a household name. Album sales brought in the most cash.

And through it all, with each passing year, the Stranger fired only those who were inept and continued to accept his paychecks. He was very compassionate toward employees who struggled through no fault of their own, and to those with families in need. It wasn't about 'getting even' when he terminated someone… more often than not, it was about an employee's negative attitude. _Life was an adventure_, the Stranger would point out on many occasions when he personally chose to confront someone. If you were just along for a simple ride, then you had no business hitching your train to his. He was after something more, people who wanted to _EXCEL_. Caught in the center of a rapidly expanding media empire, Paul Scaribelli's experience level naturally grew exponentially. Many people left the investment team as the decades passed, occasionally because an employee here or there stopped taking the job seriously. More often than not, however, termination was the inevitable result of repeated bad decisions.

Watching the road pass by, Scaribelli smiled wryly. _More often than not_, he thought silently. But there were plenty of crooks too, and those who chose to steal were carefully pruned and eventually turned over to the authorities. Handsome Stranger's administrative staff had an unofficial, ongoing relationship with the police, as a matter of fact. Most of the celebrities in the Hollywood area had representatives who kept in touch with the authorities. The Stranger's massive fortune was a natural magnet for liars, cheats and a never ending flow of con men. Paul had grown skilled at identifying them over the years, but the tough part of his job was coming up with concrete proof. After all, termination without cause was a situation begging for a frivolous lawsuit – to combat them the Stranger's staff also boasted over a dozen lawyers. And throughout the last decade, there had been one man who troubled Paul the most. One man always seemed to slip through the cracks, even though Paul knew he was guilty, and somehow manage to successfully cover his tracks well enough to mask his thievery.

_Today, Paul Scaribelli had finally accumulated enough evidence to bring that person down._

Traffic had slowed considerably, and he glanced with frustration through the vehicle's front windshield. Eager for a final resolution to a problem that had haunted him for years now, Paul had left the Stranger's home a few minutes earlier than planned. The lunch rush had not yet fully abated, and he was caught behind a large bunch of vehicles that were barely moving. Perhaps there had been an accident somewhere up ahead, or possibly the delay was due to something else entirely. It was tough to know, in a large city like L.A., until actually reaching the site of the disturbance. Frustrated, Scaribelli decided to use the unexpected availability of free time efficiently. He pulled out his cell phone and attached it to the Cadillac's Bluetooth system and then dialed a phone number.

The connection rang just once before it was answered. "_Los Angeles Police Department_," a female voice efficiently informed him. "_May I help you?_"

"Yes," responded Scaribelli confidently. "Please connect me with Lt. Columbo."

The pause was brief. "_The Lieutenant is currently unavailable. May I take a message, sir, or would you prefer to leave a message on his voice mail?_"

"Tell the Lieutenant that I believe I know someone connected with the recent death at the Los Angeles Zoo," said Scaribelli. "I read the article in the newspaper regarding the killing, and the man who died used to work in the same building as my suspect. I've seen them together more than once, in fact." His mind was racing. _Add to that the sudden appearance Adrian Monk earlier in the morning, and it wasn't all that difficult to put two and two together and get four_.

"_May I have your name sir, and also the name of your suspect?_"

Smiling at the question, Scaribelli shook his head negatively. The last thing he needed at this point was a slander lawsuit if his suspicions somehow turned out to be wrong. "_My_ name is Paul Scaribelli. Tell Lt. Columbo to meet me at the Security Desk on the second floor of the Blue Sky Plaza office building at 2:00 p.m. He'll be able to access it from an elevator in a parking ramp on the west side."

"_Sir, I will give Lt. Columbo your message as soon as he returns, but I cannot guarantee that he will be able to meet your deadline._"

"If he can't come personally, then just send another detective." His mood unaltered, Scaribelli thumbed a button to terminate the connection. Sitting almost totally idle in a sea of slow moving traffic, he studied the heat waves emanating off of the hundreds of other cars surrounding him. It was a brightly lit, sunny afternoon with just a few puffy white clouds, which only served to make the delay much more frustrating than he would have anticipated. _I probably should have made the appointment for 2:30 p.m._, he thought to himself with the added benefit of hindsight. Never one to question his judgment for more than an instant, he reactivated the Bluetooth phone system. "Call Mike," he stated tersely, tapping the system's software to access a prerecorded number.

This time the phone rang three times before the call was picked up on the other end. "_Featherstone Investments, Michael Van Portman speaking_."

"Hello Mike, this is Paul."

"_Paul, how's my best client doing? I've been meaning to check up on you, but today has been a non-stop hassle. Did you get the files that I sent over to the Stranger's house?_"

"I did." He reached over toward the passenger seat and softly patted the thick, bundled files setting there with his right hand. "I'm bringing them back to you right now, as a matter of fact."

"_I trust you found nothing out of the ordinary_." Despite the usual confident façade from the Investment Financier, Paul noticed the first hint of growing concern in the other man's voice.

"Everything's fine. I have some errands that took me downtown anyway, so I'm going to stop by for a few minutes and return the files to your office."

"_You are? Well you wouldn't have had to do that. I could have sent a courier over to the house for them_."

"It's not a problem Mike. Just get the coffee hot and ready, because I'll be there shortly. But it may be a few minutes yet… noon traffic is still pretty thick out here today."

"_All right. I'll page Margie right now and have her bring up your favorite blend_."

_You do that_, thought Paul furiously to himself, terminating the call with a flourish. _You dirty rotten crook_.

* * *

><p><em>Monday afternoon, 1:27 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>As soon as the call from Paul Scaribelli terminated, Mike Van Portman paused just long enough to take several deep breaths in an attempt to contain his skyrocketing anxiety level. He could tell from the confidence and boisterous tone of voice that Scaribelli had used during the phone conversation that the man was on to him. There was no way he would personally stop by and return the huge files bulging with paperwork that Van Portman had given him unless he had found something useful. Scaribelli had never liked him much and was usually suspicious, most probably since Van Portman had been stealing from Handsome Stranger and other clients since the day he had been hired. But he had been skimming money very cautiously and in amounts small enough so that they could be carefully concealed amidst all of the thousands of bank transactions so commonly generated by rich clientele.<p>

For Van Portman, today was suddenly his own personal judgment day. He had been aware of Scaribelli's suspicions for years, but had always managed to strategically use his secretary, Margie, as a barrier between himself and the accountants who worked for his clients. Margie held all of the 'official' documents, where everything appeared at first glance to be totally ordinary. Often times, the vast majority of Handsome Stranger's financial activity _was_ in fact normal, since Van Portman had a history of skimming from the massive, frequent withdrawals the rock star regular made from his general account. If he called for forty thousand dollars, Van Portman would withdraw forty-five thousand and then manually adjust the invoices that crossed his desk to show that the extra five thousand had actually been spent.

With the Stranger, such thievery was easy. Pizza orders, emergency cleaning crews, pool cleaning, household maintenance, vehicle repair, tour expenses… the list of spending never stopped. In addition to having skills with make-up, Van Portman was also an excellent forger. Often times an invoice might prove too difficult to modify, in which case the investment counselor would simply forge a completely new one and file it as though it were the original. The high end clients he worked for spent so much money on so many little things that there was no possible way for them to remember it all. For example, how could Handsome Stranger come back to him in six months and remember with any assurance of clarity just how much food he had ordered from today's breakfast caterer?

Van Portman was admittedly a crook, but he was also intelligent. He was very aware of how easily one could leave behind evidence when stealing. In the long run, it was almost inevitable that he would miss something or an invoice would be sent to the Stranger's home address instead of directly to the office building. He also knew that the Stranger's team was famous for working with the police… which was why up until a few minutes ago his confidence had remained sky high. The police didn't have a clue as to who killed Devon Petersen, even after finding diamonds in the Zoo fountain. Up until today, there was simply no connection to him directly. Now, however, Paul Scaribelli was about to change all of that. Once he said _anything_ to the police, it would take them very little time to notice that Blue Sky Plaza was the very same office building that Petersen and Frank Lauden had worked at prior to assuming their new positions at the Zoo. They would also notice that there was an abundance of jewel wholesalers in the neighborhood.

_Once those connections were made, the rest of the pieces would all fall neatly into place._

Already Van Portman was scrambling toward his briefcase and the extra make-up kit inside, a duplicate of the supplies he kept in his desk at home. The jig was definitely up and there was no more time to wait for Frank Lauden to find the missing diamonds. He would have to retreat to his house, pick up the smaller batch of diamonds concealed there, and then make a run somewhere. Given the fact that he would be getting significantly less of a payoff after years of effort, he fervently wished that he had not impulsively killed Devon Petersen. In fact, if Lauden somehow managed to locate the missing ten million, he quite possibly could end up getting to keep _all_ of it. That was a hard fact to swallow, and Van Portman briefly considered altering his escape plan to include a stop at Lauden's house. _Just long enough to shoot him in the head_, he thought bitterly to himself.

That would be too much of a risk, and even while wearing one of his famous disguises Van Portman was too frightened and cautious to take such a colossal risk. He had his new identity ready and, wherever he ended up, the skills necessary to resume operations elsewhere. Hell, with a couple of extra million to play with, he might even be satisfied with an ordinary income from this point forward. The thought distressed him somewhat, as he had always had higher aspirations, but once he was fully relocated and living under a new identity common sense clearly dictated that it would be difficult and downright dangerous to risk additional thievery. _He would have to content himself with a massive bonus_.

Sitting at his desk and working with a simple pocket mirror, he casually donned the disguise of a bald man with thick dark glasses, changed into less expensive clothing and then carefully checked his work. When he was certain that he looked completely different than his normal identity, he packed up his briefcase. Right before he left the office, he slipped an unregistered .38 special in his jacket pocket along with a large, razor sharp switchblade knife. The time on the wall clock read 1:46 p.m. Of course the timing would need to be perfect, but Van Portman was used to the adrenalin rush by now and eagerly anticipated that everything would go well. He had killed once already and he was ready to do so again, should the need arise. _He would take pleasure in doing so, as a matter of fact_.

* * *

><p><em>Monday afternoon, 1:38 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Squinting against the bright sunlight slicing through the afternoon heat, Lieutenant Columbo raised a calloused hand and its short stubby fingers above his eyes as he glanced briefly through the front windshield of his Peugeot. "Can you believe this?" he asked with a shake of his head and growing disbelief. "Wouldn't you know it, <em>this<em> kind of thing always happens to me!" He surveyed the myriad of other automobiles caught with him in traffic and glanced over at his passenger. "Even when I finally catch a break, I can't catch a break!"

Adrian Monk studied him curiously. "And just what does that mean?" he asked inquisitively.

Pausing for a moment to make certain, one final time, that there was absolutely no forward movement in the surrounding traffic, Columbo shifted the car into neutral. "I've been meaning to check out our next destination ever since we visited Mrs. Petersen and her daughter," he responded. "The Blue Sky Plaza office complex… it's where Frank Lauden and Devon Petersen worked prior to their zoo jobs."

Monk nodded in response. "I remember her mentioning the previous job, but not the name of the building." He raised an eyebrow as Columbo suddenly began digging around in his pockets, clumsily looking for something. There wasn't much room in the little car to begin with, especially while sitting behind the steering wheel. The comical sight of the elderly detective's struggle almost caused Monk to laugh, but he held back. Stottlemeyer really respected this guy, and that meant a lot to Monk.

"Mrs. Petersen gave me this right before we left," pointed out Columbo after another thirty seconds or so of searching, handing Monk a small cardboard business card with blue and black print. On it Devon Petersen's name was clearly visible in black script. The top left of the card sported a simple logo, a round circle of bright blue with the upper third of a yellow sun peeking up from the bottom of it. _Blue Skies Office Plaza_ was printed above Petersen's name, and the card also contained a street address. At the bottom of the card right next to an E-mail address were two phone numbers, one for the receptionist's line and another for faxing.

"So why can't you catch a break?" Monk wondered, holding up his hands for emphasis. "I don't get it."

"Do you know Paul Scaribelli? Did you get to meet him?"

"Yeah, I was introduced to him earlier today, with Natalie and Julie while we were at Handsome Stranger's house." He shrugged his shoulders. "We basically shook hands and said hello."

"Well, something about your visit caused the pieces of a mental jigsaw puzzle to finally fit together in Mr. Scaribelli's mind. He phoned my office about an hour ago and claims to know someone at Blue Sky Plaza who he has seen with Devon Petersen while our murder victim was still working there. He urgently requested that I meet him at the Security desk at 2:00 p.m. sharp." Columbo smiled through his frustration as the car eased forward a few feet and then came to a stop behind a bright red Dodge pickup. "I was still busy checking out the local jewelry wholesalers and retailers when I heard about his call. Normally I would never be able to just up and go to a meeting like this, but the Captain and Chief Disher offered to finish up the list of interviews for me."

"So you finally caught a break by having us in the form of additional help…" Monk mused thoughtfully, looking out at the sea of traffic in front of them. "And now you're stuck in traffic and may still end up arriving late anyway. The situation _is_ kind of ironic."

"Oh, it's _very_ ironic," insisted Columbo, watching his counterpart's expression closely. "Have you figured out yet why your Captain brought you along with him to L.A.?"

"Ostensibly the reason he gave me was that you wanted to meet me personally," said Monk with a chuckle. "But I suspected immediately that there was more to it than that."

"Well, I certainly did want to meet you, Mr. Monk," nodded Columbo amiably. "I've been reading about your exploits for years now… you've solved some very high profile cases all by yourself." He frowned upon reading Monk's reaction. "Out of curiosity, just what specifically makes you think there was more to the Captain's motive? Because I have to tell you… I've known Leland Stottlemeyer for years and he's a pretty good guy."

Monk exhaled with mild frustration as he thought about the question. "Ever since we finally solved the mystery behind my late wife's murder, the Captain has seemed… oddly focused on keeping me up-to-date on all of the new policies and procedures currently used by the department." The former detective scratched his head irritably. "It bothers me, because I've admittedly pretty much settled into my routine as a consultant at this point. There isn't a whole lot that goes on anymore that I can't process, and my specific role is to look at all of the evidence and then help Stottlemeyer connect the dots."

"You don't want to go back to being a full-time police officer?"

Monk pondered the question carefully for a moment before continuing. "No. I'm usually the first one to waffle when it comes to making a decision, but at this point I guess I really don't," he admitted with mild embarrassment. "I always felt kind of out of place as a member of the force, because my personality has always leaned toward isolation. As a cop you have to be part of a team and back others up. So after I lost my job it just seemed as though the proper thing to do would be to get it back… to go back into the working world as soon as possible and be a productive member of society. For years after I was dismissed I expended a great deal of energy fervently trying to get my badge back. I've even officially _been_ back for a short while and that only served to clarify things for me." He smiled wryly at the memories. "I remember the first case I ever consulted on like it was yesterday. We were in pursuit of an assassin targeting a candidate for mayor. It was a tough little mystery that ended up luring me back out into the world of police work because the higher ups wanted a second opinion. The Captain didn't like it one bit."

"Felt a little threatened by your presence, did he?" wondered Columbo. Although he took a moment to roll down his window and allow some fresh air into the vehicle, it was clear that Monk had his full attention. But he shook his head when Monk tried to roll down the corresponding passenger side window. "That one's not working for some reason," he pointed out with a wry grin. "I've been meaning to get it fixed." Studying Monk curiously, the Lieutenant waited for him to continue. When it became obvious a reply was not immediately forthcoming, he spoke up. "So how did it feel to be back as a consultant, but not as an official officer of the law?"

"Unusual," admitted Monk. "It was extremely unusual – uncomfortable actually – for the first year or two. At first I didn't think my return to crime solving would last long, but the department really liked my work and the Captain was able to set up an arrangement where I could get paid for solving crimes. After my nurse, Sharona left, Natalie came into my life and she even helped me take things a step further. She helped me set up shop as a part time private investigator." He harrumphed at the memory. "I fought her tooth and nail, at first, because she was spending all kinds of money on silly little things like business cards. But deep down I knew that those kinds of thoughts were just an excuse to avoid additional change in my life. Being a private investigator really grew on me once I began to help people solve cases. In this day and age, having a little extra money coming in now and then never hurts, either. So I guess you could say that I didn't realize just how content I was in my new role until I finally did end up recovering to the point where I was offered my old job back."

"What went wrong?"

"My gut instincts told me it was wrong," decided Monk without hesitation. "I managed to help solve a case, but put myself in danger in the process. Everyone, including the Captain, who used to praise me for my ingenuity, was suddenly pointing fingers at me because I took unnecessary risks or messed up on some sort of official procedure." He fell silent for a moment, thinking back. "It was a non-stop barrage of little things that just didn't feel right, especially the part about being responsible for the lives of other officers. That was a lot of pressure right there… knowing that I don't respond to intense situations in the same way that others do. I'm not…"

"…normal?" Columbo guessed, laughing out loud. "If God had wanted everyone to be normal Mr. Monk, He would have created pre-programmed robots and not people. You have feelings… emotions, and that's a large part of what makes your personality rare and unique. And as for this amazing thing you do with evidence… well, that's even _more_ rare and _more_ unique."

"Maybe you're right. I'm well aware of my… oddities, and so was everyone else." He took a deep breath and smiled much more confidently, as though he was glad to be getting a chance to really talk to someone. "Right after I consulted with the Captain on that first mayor/assassin case, I woke up one morning feeling really content… probably the best that I had felt since Trudy died. At the time I was still very much wounded, emotionally, from her death, but solving that particular case made me feel like I was at least getting out in the world and helping… even if only a little bit. And I was doing so by dealing with life on _my_ terms for once, not having life dictate each day's events _to_ me. It was a great feeling and a part of me was really hoping that I could hold on to that contentment."

Columbo pointed a stubby index finger at him. "You felt like you mattered, and yet you didn't have to put yourself in harm's way, walk a beat or worry about presenting an image to the public that the department wanted you to project. I think you felt so good because, for once, you could just be… yourself."

"Exactly. I remember thinking that it would be nice if I could wake up in ten years… or maybe even twenty, and still be confronting life on my terms and still feeling that good. I _wanted_ to stay in my new niche, but kept wondering what I was missing out on back at the office. A small part of me felt that even if I never did end up getting my old job back, I'd still be okay… as long as I could keep doing what I do best. But for many years that part of me was overwhelmed by a strong desire to go back… because I really thought that going back was what really mattered. And when I finally got that second chance at working on the force, I finally ended up realizing that many things in life _had_ conclusively changed for me even if I didn't want them to. I couldn't go back in time and prevent Trudy's death; she was gone and it was time to begin dealing with reality again. It dawned on me right there and then that being happy and working as a consultant was more important to me than being miserable as a cop."

Traffic was beginning to move slowly forward, so Columbo shifted the vehicle out of neutral and edged it cautiously forward. "We've all got to do what makes us happy Mr. Monk," he concluded. "My wife tells me that all the time and she's rarely wrong on these types of things. Your story just makes me believe that all the more." He flashed Monk a look of professional respect. "And I'm really glad you finally discovered who killed Trudy," he admitted in a rare display of emotion. "God only knows… if someone killed _my_ wife? Well, let's just say that someone had better run and hide some place very far away where I'll never find him. I really believe the act of murder is evil in its purest form."

"Natalie told me that you've solved a lot of cases…" replied Monk hesitantly, trailing off for a moment before laughing with mild amusement. Emotions were often difficult for him to process. "Hundreds of them, in fact." He shook his head, unable to hide his feeling of astonishment. "I don't know yet if I can continue working for as long as you have, even in a limited role as a consultant. Think about it… more than four hundred cases… what a truly _amazing_ thing you've done! I might not know how to properly say it, but it has been an honor for me too having the opportunity to meet and work with you."

"Thank you Mr. Monk," said Columbo, graciously accepting the compliment. "I appreciate that very much." He studied the steadily moving cars around them. "We're in luck! Traffic is moving again and there's still time… we may actually make it to our meeting with this Mr. Paul Scaribelli yet!"

* * *

><p><em>Monday afternoon, 1:52 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>After finally breaking free from the mid-afternoon traffic, Paul Scaribelli drove his Cadillac Escalade father into the downtown L.A. area until he reached the massive, four-story parking ramp on the west end of Blue Sky Office Plaza. He stopped at the main gate just long enough to retrieve a paper ticket, computer-stamped with the current date and time, before driving onto the ramp. A security guard with thinning gray hair who sat in the booth behind the ticket dispenser waved casually at him in recognition. Smiling, Paul listened to the throaty roar from the SUV's engine as it auto-shifted into a lower gear. He drove around the outer spiral onto the gradually increasing incline toward the parking area's second level. At the head of the row, there were two clusters of mostly empty, reserved slots that the office complex deliberately set aside for VIP customers.<p>

The offices inside Blue Sky Plaza were awash with financiers, lawyers, and other professionals providing specialty services for many of the Hollywood elite who regularly sought them out. Mike Van Portman was just one of dozens of investment counselors working in the building, but at this moment he was the only person Paul Scaribelli was concerned with. He grimly pulled into an empty parking spot and opened the driver's door, pushing it farther open with his foot. Reaching over to the passenger seat, he lifted and tucked both bundled, tightly bound files under his left arm and grabbed his briefcase with his right hand. Expertly he snapped his car keys to a clip on the briefcase handle and stepped out onto the black, asphalt pavement. Farther down the row, he heard the sound of another vehicle engine as it pulled away from its parking space and accelerated down the inner access ramp toward the street level below.

Walking a bit awkwardly in order to accommodate the heavy paper files, Paul moved toward the nearby elevator. Next to its brightly white-painted doors on the left side was a walkway leading back toward a stairwell doorway, which was clearly marked along the top of its frame with a small sign. There, the word 'Exit' glowed brightly in red letters on its surface. Because of his high standing as a member of Handsome Stranger's financial team, Scaribelli rarely had to use either the elevator or the stairs. He would just pass through the main building entrance to the right of the elevators. Most of the financial people with offices in Blue Sky Plaza were located on the second floor.

This time things were different. Scaribelli paused slowly in front of the elevators, an odd feeling appearing in his gut, signaling him that something was wrong. The instinct was confirmed seconds later when a man holding a gun in his left hand stepped out of the shadows in front of him. Bald and extremely tan, the man's eyes were completely hidden by a large pair of dark sunglasses. "Hello Paul," the stranger said dourly with a thin smile. "It's nice to see you got through traffic without any hassle."

"Mike?" said Scaribelli quizzically, squinting in the dim lighting. "Is that you?"

Although he didn't recognize the man's physical appearance, the voice sounded extremely familiar and Paul was able to make the connection. He froze almost completely in his tracks at the sight of the .38, and his adversary didn't hesitate. He calmly stepped forward while still smiling darkly and gestured malevolently with the hand gun. "I'll be taking those," the stranger snapped brusquely, gesturing toward the files neatly tucked under Paul's left arm. His right hand suddenly shot forward at high speed. In the dim lighting of the parking area, something flashed brightly as it reflected what little light was available. Scaribelli felt unexpected warmth along his lower left side, followed instantly by a stabbing jolt of intense pain. Gasping from the agony and sudden shock that followed, he staggered backwards a few steps, lost his balance and toppled onto the asphalt floor.

His vision clouded suddenly, but Scaribelli caught a brief glimpse of a knife sticking out of his left side. He touched the handle with his left hand and then stared dumbly at the wet, sticky blood on the tips of his fingers. His attacker held one of the large documentation files, having managed to grab it before it could fall. The other large bundle had landed next to him and burst free of its mostly rubber-banded binding. Through a haze of dizziness Paul noticed blood splattered on many of the loose sheets of paper. "You just couldn't leave things alone, could you?" he heard Van Portman say, and the other man's voice seemed to alternate between sounding near and distant. "_Could you?_"

Scaribelli's vision began to swirl clumsily back and forth. Van Portman shouted something else at him, but Paul wasn't hearing the words any longer. Images of the parking area, the bald man's face, the pavement beneath him, and a widening pool of blood briefly permeated the warm dizziness taking over control of his mind. For a moment, it seemed as if his hearing had simply been shut off – all he could hear was the internal sound of blood rushing through his brain as his body tried to recover from the unexpected injury it had just sustained. From his position lying helplessly, flat on his back, Scaribelli looked up vaguely at Van Portman standing over him.

"Good bye Paul," sneered the accountant heatedly, glaring down at him from above.

_The last thing Scaribelli remembered hearing, just prior to blacking out, was the sound of someone shouting from behind him – from back in the general area where he had parked the Escalade. Head swimming, he struggled to remain conscious as the crack of two gunshots rang out from right above him…_

* * *

><p><em>Monday afternoon, 1:54 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Upon rolling through the same check point that Paul Scaribelli had used only minutes earlier, Columbo drove leisurely up the winding, spiral driveway leading up to the second level. Once there, he slowed the car significantly, searching to the left and to the right for an open parking space. "There ought to be a VIP slot or two reserved for the police," he commented idly, frowning. They had finally escaped from mid-afternoon traffic only to arrive at a location where many of the vehicles regularly parked. "Cops are VIPs too, right?"<p>

"We've got about six minutes until 2:00," Adrian Monk pointed out after briefly glancing at his watch. "There's still time."

"Yeah, I know, but good grief… it shouldn't be so hard to find a… _AHA!_"

Monk was thrown unexpectedly forward as Columbo braked suddenly. The sound of tires skidding on the asphalt followed soon after as the Lieutenant cackled gleefully in triumph. The white reverse lights of a burnt orange Pontiac to his left had come on, and he quickly shifted his own vehicle into reverse. "You really should get my seat belt fixed if you're going to be dynamiting your brakes like that," observed Monk with a scowl of disapproval, holding up the useless lap belt. "I certainly hope you don't do that with Mrs. Columbo in the car… you'd have to peel her off the windshield."

"Only when I need a parking space Mr. Monk!" replied Columbo triumphantly. He moved the vehicle back a dozen yards or so, making room for the Pontiac to back out. As soon as the other car was moving off toward the down ramp he roared forward, turned sharply and claimed the parking space for his own. He shut off the engine and removed his key from the ignition when Monk's comment finally registered. "Your seat belt doesn't work?" he asked curiously.

"Nope," Monk told him firmly. "Were you planning on getting it fixed at the same time as the window?"

Hesitating for a moment, Columbo finally grinned in response. "I do believe you're _teasing _me Mr. Monk!" he declared with a hearty chuckle. "Be very careful, because I do believe that your sense of humor is poking through all of that gloom and doom you usually carry around with you." He opened the car door and stepped out, with Monk following soon after. "Let's go see what this Paul Scaribelli has to say. It would certainly make sense if someone connected with Devon Petersen's murder works in this building."

"Earlier, you mentioned that you were planning on checking out this building anyway," Monk reminded him as they began walking toward the distant elevator area. "Without someone like Mr. Scaribelli to help you, where would you have started your investigation?"

"This is a building that consistently remains on our radar," noted Columbo wryly. He frantically searched the pockets of his rain coat for a cigar but only managed to find a small, partially smoked stub to chomp on. "The people who work in this office complex serve most of Hollywood's super elite… only the very, _very_ rich. So you can imagine just how much dishonesty is in play at any given time in this facility. If we hadn't gotten a tip from Scaribelli, I would have started with the most troublesome people we've had problems with in the past and then worked my way down the list." They rounded a bend in the huge, spiraling concrete structure surrounding them. "There are minor complaints and tips coming in all of the time, and…" He jerked to a sudden stop and grabbed Monk's arm to bring him to an abrupt halt too. "What's going on down there?" the Lieutenant asked curiously, watching two men standing next to the still distant elevator. One of them suddenly stumbled backward and then flopped over onto his back.

Monk had opened his mouth to take another jab at Columbo for his sudden propensity to come to an abrupt halt. The joke died in his throat, however, upon noticing the obvious attack by one man on another. "_Hey!_" he shouted suddenly, his voice echoing through the parking area. "_What's going on down there?_"

The first shot from Van Portman's .38 buzzed past Monk's left ear and impacted against a cement column behind him. Columbo tackled him around the waist an instant later, causing both men to land on the dark black asphalt behind a tan Ford Mercury. The second gunshot shattered several of the Mercury's windows. "Be careful Mr. Monk," said the Lieutenant in a cautioning tone of voice. "I think we've found our killer, but we don't want him hurting anyone else if we can possibly avoid it."

A third shot rang out, and the bullet whistled past them on its way toward the deep, distant recesses of the parking area. "Ah, I don't mean to criticize…" said Monk, much more calmly than he would normally have expected of himself, "…but someone is trying to _kill_ us! Shouldn't you shoot back?"

Columbo smiled ruefully. "I don't have a gun," he explained, waving both hands for emphasis. "I was desperately hoping that _you_ brought one."

"_Why_ in the world would _I_ have a gun?" snapped Monk heatedly, huddling on his knees from pure fright behind the sturdy, reassuring length of the Mercury. "_You're_ the cop for God's sake! I know how this stuff is supposed to work because I've _been_ a cop and been dismissed on multiple occasions. When you join the police force, you receive a badge and a gun. And when you leave the police force, you turn in your badge and you turn in your _gun!_"

"What can I say?" growled Columbo somewhat irritably. "I _hate_ guns, just like you Mr. Monk! I can't stand the things! When it's time to take the proficiency tests, I usually slip somebody a few bucks to take the test for me and sign my name. Besides, I don't remember anyone ever shooting at me before. If I think there could be violence when I confront people, I bring a patrolman along with me. That usually dissuades most suspects from causing trouble."

"Well you should have brought a patrolman _here!_" insisted Monk with growing annoyance. "Don't you have a cell phone or at least a radio?"

"No," said Columbo a bit more quietly as the direness of their situation settled onto his shoulders. "Unfortunately, I tend to shy away from modern technology as easily as you do."

"Wait a minute!" Monk hissed, exhaling nervously and slapping at his pockets in a manner that was strikingly familiar to Columbo's trademark move. "_I_ have a cell phone… Julie loaned me hers so that I could get in touch with _Natalie_ in case of an _emergency_." He pulled the small pink, flower-covered device out of the right pocket of his slacks and flipped it open, dialing as fast as his fingers could touch the numbers.

"_9-11 emergency_," said an alert, female voice an instant after the phone rang. "_May I help you?_"

A fourth shot slammed into the opposite side of the Mercury, and the metal doors of the vehicle trembled from the impact. "Gun… shootout… need help," stuttered Monk, his own nerves fraying more than a little.

"That one sounded like it was fired from a location much closer to us," mused Columbo nervously. "We're running out of time." He took the cell phone from Monk's hand, his tone calm but firm. "Blue Sky Plaza Parking Garage, second level. Murder suspect on site and shots fired; please send backup law enforcement." Still kneeling, he set the phone on the ground, leaving it open and connected with the 9-11 dispatch officer. Then he turned toward Monk with a concerned expression on his wrinkled face. "We've _got_ to find a way to stall for time or we're going to end up in the same condition as Devon Petersen."

_With anxiety crawling through his gut, Adrian Monk struggled to come up with a solution._


	10. Monk Figures It Out: Well, Most Of It

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Monk Figures It Out… Well, Most Of It**

* * *

><p><em>Monday afternoon, 1:58 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Crouching behind the Ford Mercury, Lt. Columbo risked a quick peek above the rear of the vehicle, just long enough to focus on their adversary and give him a brief once over. His gaze settled on a terrified looking bald man standing less than forty feet away from him, still surrounded by clouds of swirling gray smoke from the recent gunshots. A .38 revolver was gripped tightly in his extended left hand. The right arm hung limply by his side, fresh blood still dripping from the fingertips as a result of his attack on Paul Scaribelli. Monk, meanwhile, was sitting with his back pressed firmly against the driver's side door. He had noticed all of the broken glass fragments from the spider-webbed, shattered side window lying on the black asphalt beneath them and was busy lining up the tiny shards neatly in rows of ten.<p>

"What are you doing?" whispered Columbo curiously, staring in disbelief at the carefully arranged glass fragments. Many of them sparkled like jewels in the subdued lighting surrounding them. "There's a man with a gun standing out there and we could very likely get _killed_ here."

"Don't judge please… this helps me _think!_" Monk hissed back at him grimly, and the speed with which he was arranging the fragments increased slightly. Then he stopped very abruptly, eyes lighting up. "_Bluff_," he suggested to the Lieutenant. "He _can't_ be expecting a police presence so soon… _rattle_ his cage."

Columbo thought about the suggestion for several seconds and then smiled, reaching into the inner pocket of his raincoat. "Excellent idea," he replied softly, removing his wallet. Flipping it open to display the gold badge inside, he held it up above the car trunk so that it was clearly visible to their attacker. "My name is Columbo, and I'm from the Los Angeles Police Department," said the detective in a much louder tone of voice. "I don't want to have to shoot you son, but I will if I have to. It would be a shame to die here, so I really think you should lay down your weapon and put your hands on top of your head."

"_And do it right now!_" shouted Monk at the top of his lungs, thereby disclosing to Van Portman that there were two men, possibly armed, and not just a single witness. "_You _shot_ at me and I'm really… really angry!_" He put his hands over his ears, hoping that if he was to die by gunfire on this day to be spared the sound of another gunshot. "_I'm not joking; you have no idea how really, really angry I am!_"

Van Portman was already visibly rattled, having expected to commit murder silently and stealthily, without the need for gunfire. The surrounding confines of the concrete parking garage had made his shots sound like small bomb explosions as they reverberated throughout the structure. The fact that the people who now challenged him were in fact police officers was even more unsettling. _Scaribelli must have called in advance and told them he was coming here_, the disgusted financial consultant realized suddenly, even as he heard his victim groan audibly from behind him. _And to make matters worse, he's still alive!_ Van Portman realized. The fury in his gut evaporated, instantly replaced by an all-encompassing fear.

Everything had all been planned out in his head; a perfect murder committed silently in broad daylight with no witnesses. After that, he would retreat back to his home, pick up his diamonds and flee the state. To make matters worse, the entrance to the main building opened unexpectedly behind him, admitting a slightly overweight, puzzled security officer. "What the devil is going on?" the balding man demanded, curiously scratching his head with the tips of his fingers. "Who the _hell_ is making all the noise out here?"

The last of Van Portman's rapidly fraying nerves completely melted away what remained of his confidence. Despite his disguise and the anonymity it granted him, the newly formed crime scene was very rapidly becoming extremely crowded. _Who's going to show up next?_ Van Portman wondered silently, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable while standing out in the open even as the police maintained a protective cover behind parked vehicles. His thought process shifted and some of the anger returned, but the sound of the cop's voice drowned out the last residual traces of courage.

"This is your last chance," hollered Columbo from his hiding spot, hoping desperately that the sudden presence of the security guard would not decay into a hostage situation. Matters were bad enough already.

Sensing the presence of the security guard still standing behind him, Van Portman hesitated. _They would replace Lauden and Petersen with someone competent_, he thought to himself, and right then and there he visualized himself locked away in prison, probably for decades. The possibility of capture was something that he had never before seriously considered. He was the _clever_ one, the intelligent criminal who could always fly under the law's radar. Now, thinking about just how an accountant could hope to survive while locked away in the midst of violent criminals, he fought back an instinctual need to panic and turned sharply. The security guard's eyes widened as he noticed the gun in Van Portman's fist.

"Just stay where you are and no one gets hurt," growled the accountant heatedly.

"It looks like it's a little bit late for that," gasped the guard, his face whitening noticeably while staring at all of the blood surrounding Scaribelli's body. Even more of it had splattered all over Van Portman's clothing. The guard's hands came partially up as he surrendered, but Van Portman ignored him and ran for the stairs. He reached the door in seconds and vanished behind it, the sound of his feet pounding on the metal stair steps fading rapidly in his wake.

Columbo popped up suddenly from behind the Mercury and he trotted briskly across the remaining distance separating him from the inert form of Scaribelli. Monk followed close behind, carefully watching to make certain that Van Portman had indeed made the decision to flee. The Lieutenant held the open pink cell phone tightly in his right hand. "Emergency Operator, this is Lt. Columbo of the L.A.P.D." He spoke the words swiftly but calmly. "Our suspect has fled the scene and we have a badly wounded individual on our hands. Please dispatch an ambulance along with a full medical team immediately."

"_At least one ambulance is always included in a 9-11 emergency of this nature_," the operator informed him. "_Your assistance is already en route_."

"Very good, because we're going to need them," concluded a grim Columbo as he looked at the massive blood pool surrounding Paul Scaribelli. The accountant's fall had jarred the knife loose and it hung loosely from the entry wound. "Hold onto this," he snapped briskly, tossing the still open phone to the security guard. "Mr. Monk, I'm going to need your sweater vest please."

"For what?" Monk's face was ash white as he studied the desperately wounded Scaribelli. Even as he watched with growing apprehension, Columbo grabbed the badly wounded accountant's legs and pulled him clear of the blood pool. Almost instantly an additional spray of blood poured out of the wound. "First Aid. Of… of course," nodded Monk, realizing instantly how quickly action on their part was needed.

He removed the outer garment at breakneck speed and began folding one end of it into layers. Columbo pulled the knife away from Scaribelli's side gently by the end of the hilt with the tips of his fingers and tossed it aside. Then the Lieutenant accepted Monk's sweater and gingerly inserted the folded edge into the wound and pressed the rest of the garment against Scaribelli's side as hard as he could. More of the garment than he would have guessed disappeared inside the stab wound. Most of the tan fabric immediately turned bright red as it soaked up the tremendous surge of blood flowing out of the wound. "Press here as hard as you can and hold," he ordered grimly.

Monk was surprisingly lucid, having fully expected himself to be helpless in the midst of a crisis. Instead he turned toward the astonished security guard. "We're going to need your jacket," he snapped tersely.

"And your tie too, please," added Columbo. He had removed his own black tie and was busy unfurling the knot, working quickly above Scaribelli's torso.

The anxiety continued to escalate in Monk. "This isn't helping," he growled irritably, trying to push the already soaked sweater vest back against the wound. "Please hurry. I can't hold it tightly enough to slow the bleeding… the wound is too deep – it may have hit something vital." In the distance behind him the faint sound of sirens broke the peaceful silence of the afternoon.

Grabbing the security guard's navy blue blazer, Columbo folded it in half twice and then placed it over the top of Monk's sweater. "Push the sweater as far into the wound as you can." Nodding apprehensively, Monk complied, reaching under the blazer just long enough to force as much of the fabric as possible into the knife wound. He felt warm, sticky blood running over both hands as he did so.

Columbo wrapped the blazer around the sweater, lifting the wounded man briefly to push one side of it beneath Scaribelli and then stepped across his body to the other side. The accountant groaned with pain when Columbo placed his left foot against Scaribelli's ribs so that he could pull the jacket tightly in place by its sleeves before tying them firmly together. Even through the jacket's dark fabric, a wet stain near the source of the wound on the left side became immediately visible.

"Here," prompted Columbo calmly, handing one of the ties to Monk. The pair of detectives used them like rope, wrapping them tightly around the fabric encircling Scaribelli's waist on either side of the wound. Columbo's face turned bright red as he pulled the first one tight before tying it off. Monk pushed the thinner end of his tie beneath Scaribelli before handing off both ends to the Lieutenant. Sweat beading on his brow in visible drops, the elderly detective repeated the procedure and knotted the makeshift bandage as tightly as he could without further hurting the victim.

"It's kind of hard to believe, but this actually appears to be working," mumbled Monk with fascination. Everything around him seemed to be taking place at hyper speed and his mind whirled as it struggled to keep up. He pressed his right hand tentatively against the moist spot on the guard's jacket, causing Scaribelli to flinch noticeably. His fingers came away only slightly stained with fresh blood, and the unabated flow onto the asphalt floor had stopped completely. The victim moaned softly once again, and then his body and left arm snapped suddenly upward to grab Monk's forearm.

"Please…" Scaribelli gasped, his face a deathly chalk white color. "You must…"

"Help is on the way son," Columbo said reassuringly. "You just relax until it gets here."

The wounded man refused to be silent. "My… attacker was Mike… Michael Van Portman," he said slowly, making certain that he pronounced each syllable properly. "He was disguised… looked like a bald man with glasses… but I could tell it was him. He's… been stealing from us… stealing for years."

"Most of the people who work on this floor have dubious backgrounds," agreed Columbo, relaxing only slightly upon noticing Paul Scaribelli's weak smile. "If I had a nickel for every dirty accountant working in this building… well, I'd have a fortune by now and would have retired years ago."

Although the young man's wound was considerable, he somehow retained much of his vitality and made positive use of his energy by focusing on staying alive. He was in shock, but he was controlling it in an impressive display of courage. The grip on Monk's forearm slipped a bit as Scaribelli's strength ebbed and his upper body dropped back onto the dark asphalt. Monk reacted by reaching out immediately and grabbed the left hand, placing it firmly between both of his. "Hang on," he insisted, ignoring the sticky feel of the blood while listening to the sound of the sirens grow steadily louder. "It won't be long now and we'll be able to turn you over to someone who actually knows what they're doing." Scaribelli actually laughed at the joke before another coughing fit forced him to calm down.

"Could have… been worse," he reminded the two police officers. "Could have been much… worse… if no one… had been here."

The sound of emergency vehicles roaring onto the parking ramp below them reached their ears. "You shouldn't have called him and told him you were coming," noted Columbo in a mild rebuke of the man's choice. "He was already suspicious and on edge – your call simply encouraged him to panic."

"Kind of… figured that out… myself officer," grunted Scaribelli with a wan smile. "Right after he attacked me… as… matter of fact." Pulling his hand free of Monk's grasp long enough to point at the file lying next to him, Scaribelli's eyes flashed angrily. "The proof of his guilt… is in those papers," he said, pride evident in his voice. The raw surge of emotions he was feeling was keeping him strong despite a traumatic wound and major blood loss. "Handsome Stranger… has used Variano's Catering Service for years and they… changed… their logo earlier this year. Van Portman must not have noticed… because he forged backdated memos using the new logo… instead of the old. I knew instantly… they were fakes."

"I'll watch him Mr. Monk, why don't you collect those," suggested Columbo, gesturing toward the blood-spattered papers that had fallen completely out of the file. A stiff breeze was blowing through the concrete structure, strong enough to have begun scattering the papers. "After all of this, it would be a shame if we didn't officially produce enough evidence to convict Mr. Van Portman." He had noticed Monk's obvious discomfort with a man so severely wounded and made the suggestion to help the former detective maintain his cool. Deep down he felt unexpectedly responsible for and even a bit protective of the younger man. The last thing he wanted to do was emotionally scar Monk… he didn't think he would ever be able to forgive himself if that happened.

Adrian Monk rose to his feet, nodding slowly and wiping blood from his hands on his slacks. He moved quickly and began gathering up all of the scattered papers before returning to the larger bundle still lying on the garage floor. Everywhere he looked there was blood, and everything he touched seemed to be soaked in red… _so MUCH blood_, his mind screamed at him. But somehow he kept his various phobias under control and focused on the task at hand. Behind him a black and white patrol car came to a screeching halt with its red, white and blue lights flashing iridescently. A patrolman stepped out on the driver's side, but it was Sergeant Burke who literally exploded out of the passenger door.

"The dispatcher relayed your call to me," said Burke informatively, studying the scene with a wary shake of his head. "We were in the area, interviewing jewelers. Our team is already on the way." Even as he spoke the words, an ambulance arrived and pulled into position behind the police cruiser. Columbo and Burke moved to stand next to Monk, deliberately stepping away from the working area that would be needed by the medical technicians.

"Issue an immediate APB on a Michael Van Portman," Columbo ordered, shifting his gaze briefly to Burke and then back toward the crime scene. There were no photographers present, and it bothered him that they were already inadvertently making changes to the area in order to try and save Scaribelli's life. Always the detective, he was doing his best to memorize every last detail while they remained intact.

"Our suspect works in this building," added Monk. "He was wearing a disguise, but the victim recognized him anyway."

"His voice is… easy to recognize," gasped Scaribelli before descending into another coughing fit.

A pair of the med-techs had lowered a stretcher to the floor and were already busy checking his vitals. Columbo continued to watch them while thoughtfully stroking his chin. "A bald man with glasses," he repeated, remembering the accountant's earlier comments. "That sounds a _lot_ like the man we've seen in all of the jewelry store surveillance footage… the guy who was converting cash into diamonds."

"The man matching that description gave the same story to all of the jewelry personnel," grunted Burke irritably. "He claimed that he was a collector… that the diamonds were for his personal collection."

"Michael Van Portman," Monk stated softly. "Quite probably our zoo killer."

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it, Mr. Monk?" Columbo handed Burke the business card that Devon Petersen's widow had given him. "Sergeant, would you take that frightened looking security guard over there back into the building and try and get me a home address for this Van Portman fellow?" he asked politely. "After that, call downtown and get us a dual search warrant. I'd really like to search this guy's office and also check out the place where he lives."

"Right away Lieutenant." Burke hesitated for a moment, stoically watching the med-techs load a very pale-looking Paul Scaribelli into the back of the ambulance.

"Don't worry Sergeant," said Columbo in response. "I'll run the show until you get back."

"Yes sir."

More police cars were arriving with each passing minute, flooding the dimly lit parking garage with a barrage of flashing lights. Adrian Monk stared straight ahead for a minute as though hypnotized, and the trauma of the recent events finally began to take its emotional toll on him. His mind whirled with warmth and dizziness and he stared straight ahead, as if entranced, until a familiar voice snapped him instantly back to reality. "_Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk!_" he heard someone shouting loudly and clearly through all of the surrounding chaos. "Mr. Monk, are you all right?" He smelled perfume and recognized the scent.

_Natalie_.

She reached him at full speed and wrapped her arms around him despite all of the blood on his hands, arms and clothing. He thought she was going to squeeze the very breath out of him, but she pulled back just long enough to _stare_ at him with outright astonishment. "_What_ happened here?" she demanded, although concern was very evident in her tone of voice. "My God… what did you two get yourselves into?"

"We kind of interrupted a crime in progress," replied Monk, lips curling upward with just a ghost of a smile. "If we hadn't gotten here when we did, it might have ended up being another homicide."

Uniformed officers were everywhere now, with Columbo standing in the center of them barking orders and expertly keeping them from walking anywhere near areas he considered off limits. Despite the virtual sea of strange faces around him, Monk still managed to notice a pair of familiar ones. Captain Stottlemeyer and Chief Disher appeared suddenly behind Natalie and a wave of relief swept through him. In his mind, the immediate danger was over and the anxiety he had been repressing flooded through him suddenly and unopposed. Dropping to his knees, he paused to take several deep breaths… a technique that Dr. Bell had recently taught him to control sudden onrushes of emotion.

"Are you all right Monk?" asked Stottlemeyer, concern etched into the hard lines of his face.

"I think so," replied Monk with a quick nod. He studied Natalie with an inquisitive look. "I hope you brought a lot of wipes," he decided, his expression completely deadpan. "Because I would expect that the mess we made is going to take a while to clean up."

_Laughing uncomfortably at the attempted joke, Natalie reached out and hugged him firmly once again._

* * *

><p><em>Monday evening, 5:38 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>"We could have used the elevator," pointed out Natalie rather bluntly as she and Monk finished climbing the stairway leading to the third floor. They had arrived at the apartment building only minutes earlier after receiving a call from Stottlemeyer. "It didn't look that old to me."<p>

"It was creaking and groaning," Monk countered instantly. He was clean and feeling genuinely refreshed; a quick trip back to the hotel, a hot shower and fresh clothing had done wonders for his demeanor. "You probably couldn't hear the grinding that thing is making, but I certainly could."

"The things I do to make you happy," his assistant replied with a shake of her blonde head. Adrian smiled slightly despite her sour mood – it was obvious that she was still concerned about him. The sight of him earlier, looking like he had stepped right out of a horror movie, had really rattled her. Hoping to ease both her fears and those of his friend Captain Stottlemeyer, Monk had agreed to return to the hotel and clean up.

They passed through a stairwell door leading into the apartment building's main corridor. Farther down, near one of the apartments on the left side the two of them could plainly see police officers milling about. Stottlemeyer was busy talking with one of the officers, but he split away from the group and approached them as soon as he noticed their presence. "How are you doing Monk?" the Captain asked in his gravely tone, his own crabbiness blatantly revealing ongoing anxiety regarding his friend's welfare.

"I'm fine… fine… just fine," insisted Monk with a chuckle. "Really. People keep thinking of me the way I used to be… the old Monk." He clenched both of his fists together tightly and shook them for emphasis. "What you're seeing is the _new_ Monk… a much tougher version of the original."

"Okay," decided Stottlemeyer after studying his friend's face for another few seconds. "I'm glad you're here. Having you take a look at Van Portman's apartment may help us locate him."

"I wish I could have stayed at the office building and examined the things in his office too."

"Don't worry about that," said Randy Disher, appearing seemingly out of nowhere behind the Captain. "We went over it with a fine toothed comb. You standing around and dripping blood all over the evidence wouldn't have helped matters much."

"Did you find anything out of the ordinary?"

"_Here_ we have," emphasized Stottlemeyer dryly. "The stuff we found at the office will implicate Van Portman in all kinds of white collar crimes: racketeering, money laundering, embezzlement… a little bit of everything. He had all kinds of computer hardware and special printing equipment hidden in his office that he used to forge documents, just like Paul Scaribelli mentioned to you earlier. We also found a make-up kit and a lot of other material, obviously used for disguising his physical appearance. Other than Mr. Scaribelli's testimony, however, we didn't find anything that would link him directly to the zoo murder or to this afternoon's stabbing. We were hoping his apartment would give us more evidence to work with, and it most certainly has."

"The only problem is, someone else appears to have gotten here first," noted Disher eagerly. "The whole place is trashed… someone broke in and searched everything right before we got here."

Stottlemeyer folded his arms and scowled. "That's right," he agreed firmly. "When we arrived, we found the apartment door half open and noticed that the entire place had been ransacked."

"Really?" Monk stepped forward, eager to take a look. "By who?"

"We don't know yet," Disher told him. "Columbo swears that it wasn't the police. They hadn't finalized a warrant yet, and besides – we're usually a lot neater when we search."

"I should hope so," chuckled Monk. The four of them walked slowly down the corridor where a patrolman on guard outside the door to apartment 327 acknowledged Stottlemeyer's badge and allowed them to pass. Lieutenant Columbo was inside with Sergeant Burke and the rest of his team, standing in the middle of a room that appeared to have been visited recently by a tornado. Not only had most of the furniture been overturned or pushed around, but it had been meticulously torn apart.

Stottlemeyer drew Monk's attention to a pair of black dress shoes, carefully wrapped in a plastic evidence bag setting just inside the doorway. "Columbo has identified those shoes… the size matches our zoo killer's feet, and the tread pattern on the bottom of each matches the footprints in Eucalyptus Grove."

"Well that's good isn't it?" replied Monk. "Van Portman is our killer."

"It's very good," Stottlemeyer agreed with a rough smile. "Unless you count our _new_ perp… the one who busted into this place."

Noticing their arrival, Columbo dropped what he was doing and trotted briskly over to join them. "This is an _apartment_ building," he said to them as soon as he recognized Monk and Natalie. "It has thin walls, crabby neighbors… the whole enchilada. So how in the world does someone step into a third floor apartment like this one and completely wreck the place _without _disturbing anyone else in the building?" He waved both hands in front of him excitedly. "My whole life, I've never seen anything quite like this."

"We're looking for a _silent_ burglar," suggested Disher.

"Randy, please don't start…" Stottlemeyer snapped brusquely in response.

Pausing briefly in the small living room, Monk gradually drifted into the kitchen with Natalie at his side. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary to him, other than the fact that none of the cooking implements or other items were in there proper place. What few pots and pans Van Portman owned had been dumped in the center of the worn linoleum floor, with drawers and cupboard doors all hanging open. Many of the drawers were partially torn apart. Cups, plates and silverware were strewn all over the counter top and the refrigerator and freezer doors were also open. The foul odor of spoiled food caused Natalie to cringe while the four of them studied everything, searching for some sort of clue.

"Did anything at Van Portman's office indicate to you that he might have an accomplice?" wondered Monk. He twitched noticeably and Natalie nodded with satisfaction. She could still read him like a book.

"You're tempted to _clean_ this place up, aren't you?" she asked, pointing a finger at him and shaking it. "It's a _crime_ scene and needs to stay as it is, but you're tempted… _aren't_ you? You can't _stand_ seeing all of this stuff out of place."

"We could at least throw out the rotten food…" suggested Monk.

"We found a small private PDA device at the office along with all of the hidden computer equipment," Stottlemeyer informed him. He reached out and casually swatted Monk on the arm as he leaned down toward the pots and pans. "Apparently Van Portman has contacts in other states who are just as dirty as he is, which is why we can include racketeering as one of our charges against him. However, other than Frank Lauden and Devon Petersen, there is no direct evidence that he was working with anyone locally… at least for now anyway." He harrumphed with displeasure. "Eventually, we may find out more."

"How are you doing Adrian? Are you feeling okay?" asked a genuinely concerned Columbo, pausing near the length of countertop that framed the small kitchen. It was the first time he had ever used Monk's first name. The Lieutenant chuckled with amusement. "I took your advice and sent a patrol team ahead of me, making sure they got here first," he admitted. "And it's a good thing that I did. Someone was here right before we arrived and tore the place apart looking for something. If whoever it was had still been here, I might have placed myself in danger _twice_ in one day."

"Good choice," Monk nodded firmly. "Mortal danger once per day is plenty." He smiled wanly. "And I'm fine, thanks. As disasters go, I think I handled this one pretty well."

"We'll see about that," mumbled Natalie, almost too softly for anyone to hear.

"What the devil does _that_ mean?" Monk wondered, studying her.

"It means that you have a tendency to _repress_, Mr. Monk. You're clearly tougher than your behavior would indicate, but once all of the chaos is done and things settle down… well, let's just say that I will be watching you _very_ carefully for the next few days. Trust me… you're a time bomb waiting to go off."

"No," he insisted stubbornly. "I'm…"

"…the _new_ and _improved_ Monk, I _know!_" growled Natalie irritably, although the sharpness in her voice was clearly caused by her concern for him. Realizing that her argument with Monk was getting them nowhere, she decided to change the subject and shifted her attention next toward Columbo. "What would be worth stealing from this place?" she wondered curiously. "Money? More diamonds?"

"Probably," said Columbo with a brisk nod. "We didn't find any valuables at Van Portman's office, but there was a very lengthy paper trail there indicating that he has been stealing a great deal of money very slowly over time. Along with the evidence Scaribelli turned over to us, we've pretty much got him."

"Drugs?" Disher studied the Lieutenant quizzically. "Where there's lots of cash, there's usually drugs."

"Surprisingly, there is no evidence of drugs so far. We did find several revolvers in the bedroom with the serial numbers filed off, so it's obvious that he didn't feel safe even here while living in the same building with so many other people." The Lieutenant shrugged idly. "Someone is always home in an apartment building, and this is a pretty upscale neighborhood for L.A. The hand guns alone would indicate that he felt insecure, and their presence tells me that he must be keeping something worth protecting here. The burglary removes any remaining doubt."

Monk was listening carefully while studying every detail of the small kitchen. When he was finished, he leaned against the counter and gazed back into the living room, surveying it once again from a completely different angle. "I don't see anything unusual here," he said reluctantly after another few minutes. "May I take a look at the bedroom?"

"Certainly." Columbo took a step back and waved the four of them forward. "Please walk softly and don't touch anything. It's very small and can be difficult for a lot of people to move around in there."

"Randy and I have already seen it," pointed out Stottlemeyer. "Take Monk and Natalie in."

They paused at the entrance, just long enough to allow Columbo the time he needed to temporarily chase away Sergeant Burke and several other officers. "The entire apartment has been fingerprinted," Burke stated as he passed swiftly by. "The technician found only two sets of fresh prints in here – one belongs to Van Portman and the other will more than likely match the landlord's."

Monk eased into the undersized bedroom, his attention immediately drawn to a small desk. As in the kitchen, all of its drawers were partially dismantled and hanging open. Next to an overturned, green reading lamp on the desktop was a series of disguises: everything from fake moustaches to bald caps to a variety of make-up bottles. All of the hard, flat surfaces throughout the room were covered with golden-hued fingerprint powder, easily revealing Van Portman's prints on the bottles from the make-up kit. Someone had regularly touched those bottles on many occasions.

"The make-up and facial prosthetics are almost identical to the items we found in his office," noted Columbo. "Along with the bald cap there are several different pairs of spectacles and a variety of fake pieces of facial hair… prosthetics I believe they're called. Everything from mustaches to sideburns. Most of these items precisely match the physical appearance of the man seen trading cash for diamonds at downtown jewelers." He hovered tentatively near the doorway, allowing Monk as much room as possible to do his thing. "There is also a packed suitcase in the closet… it was searched like everything else by our mysterious burglar, but it sure appears as though Van Portman was planning to flee in the near future."

Searching the desktop for anything else of note, Monk turned back toward Columbo. "Did you find anything odd about the desk, any hidden partitions, that sort of thing?"

"No." Columbo shook his head negatively. "And if he had something of value hidden here, there certainly should be. At minimum, we expected to find a fire or wall safe."

"Apartment leases make it much more difficult to customize the walls," pointed out Sergeant Burke from the doorway. "If the tenant kept valuables concealed here, it's probably in the furniture. And if that is indeed the case, we haven't found it yet."

"There _has_ to be something," Monk insisted, focusing with intensity on the desk. He dropped down to his knees and carefully examined the interior area of the emptied drawers, even rolling briefly onto his back so that he could study the wooden piece of furniture from below. Finally he rose to his feet and sighed with disappointment. "Did anyone check the air vents yet? How about the inside of the toilet tank?"

"Done and done," grinned Columbo. "I'm planning on coming back tomorrow and spending some time here. That's usually the way I figure things out. It may take hours or minutes, but rest assured I _will_ discover the secret of this place. If there is something out of the ordinary, then this old Italian will eventually figure it out." His hands drifted into the pockets of his raincoat and he rocked slowly back and forth on his heels. "It's actually kind of therapeutic in a way, to sit in someone's apartment and try to visualize in your mind just what it was they were up to."

Monk was looking inquisitively past Natalie and his eyes lit up. "What about the bed?" he proclaimed with sudden enthusiasm, moving past his perky blonde assistant.

"What is it that you see?" asked Columbo with growing interest. He too began looking at the large wooden headboard and the neatly stained planks that framed the box spring and mattress. "Show us that infamous magic power of yours one more time."

"Actually, it's more of what I _don't_ see this time," Monk countered. "This entire apartment has been dusted for prints. Did you notice all of the smudged fingerprints out in the living room and kitchen?"

"Yes," agreed Columbo, his own eyes intently studying every inch of the bed for possible clues. "Sergeant Burke is convinced the burglar wore gloves. Whoever was in here busting up the furniture must therefore have smudged many of the fingerprints that were..." He trailed off suddenly, his mind supplying him with the same inspiration that had struck Monk. "Oh, I think you've done it again Mr. Monk," the Lieutenant declared proudly with a mischievous smile.

"_What?_" demanded Natalie with a sudden burst of frustration. "What do you two _see?_ I'm looking at the exact same thing you two are and I can't see anything except a bed. _What_ are you talking about?"

Ignoring the far end where the pillows lay askew against the headboard, Monk smiled. "Look closely at the top of the posts near the foot of the bed," he suggested calmly. Carefully Natalie moved closer, standing alongside the left side of the bed while peering intently at its rounded wooden bedpost. "I see a bunch of smudged fingerprints on this one," she informed them coolly, shifting her gaze back and forth. "There is also a lot of leftover dust from the fingerprinting process on the sheets and carpet, but not much else. So what gives? It looks like just another part of the crime scene."

"Look _very_ carefully at the _right_ bedpost," Columbo prodded her. "What do you see there… or _don't_ see?"

"It's partially broken off from the wooden frame. Other than that, there's nothing there," she replied after pausing for a moment to examine it carefully. "No prints or smudges of any kind. It's just a big, round wooden knob with a tiny sprinkling of yellow dust on it."

"Now look at the _left_ one again and really _think_," continued Monk. "_Why_ would Van Portman regularly touch just one of the bedposts but not the other?" He and Columbo exchanged knowing glances.

"I have no idea," she replied, growing increasingly frustrated by both of them. "If the left is the side of the bed he sleeps on, maybe he held onto the post while getting into bed. _Or_ he _might_ have grabbed it for support while changing clothes – when putting on slacks for instance." She fell silent again and took a deep breath before refocusing her gaze. Her mind was whirling with various possibilities but she just didn't see what the two detectives were driving at. "There _were_ a lot of fingerprints on the left knob," she observed cautiously, struggling to work through the deductive process. She was rewarded an instant later as inspiration struck. "But almost _all_ of those fingerprints are smudged now." She thought about the facts a bit longer and then her expression brightened. "The burglar wore _gloves!_" she proclaimed triumphantly. "He _also_ touched the left bedpost… and he touched it _a lot_."

"Probably the right one too," chuckled Columbo with admiration. "We just can't tell because there were no fingerprints on it to begin with."

"I think you had better handle this," suggested Monk, leaning toward the wooden knob on the left. "After all, this is _your_ crime scene."

"I appreciate that very much Mr. Monk," said Columbo with a warm smile.

He brought a photographer back into the bedroom just long enough to take several close-up shots of the bedpost. Once he was certain they had a final record of its location and the yellow-dusted fingerprints that were still visible, he dismissed the officer. Then he reached out, grabbed the wooden top of the bedpost firmly with one hand and pulled as hard as he could. The knob came off with an audible _'pop'_. All it took after that to resolve the mystery was a chair for the Lieutenant to stand on. With everyone's attention drawn fully to the left bedpost, the room finally relinquished its final secret.

"The entire length of this bedpost is essentially a hollow tube," Columbo noted, clearly impressed. He rapped firmly on it with his knuckles, the resulting sound easily verifying his theory."

"The right one seems normal," added Stottlemeyer, knocking on it firmly with his own fist.

Since they already had a warrant and detailed photographs of the entire bedroom, Columbo directed Sergeant Burke to use a small hand saw and simply remove the entire left post. After working busily for a few minutes, Burke pulled free a five foot length of round wooden tubing. He handed it to the Lieutenant, who turned it upside down and held it in place just long enough for gravity to cause anything significantly heavy inside to drop. When that failed to yield results, he shook the tube up and down gently at first and then gradually harder. Without warning what looked to be a small, mostly empty sack composed of black felt dropped unexpectedly onto the carpet.

Stottlemeyer and Disher were both watching curiously. "That looks a lot like a jeweler's bag," Disher commented with sudden attentiveness.

"Yes it certainly does," agreed Columbo, putting on a pair of disposable plastic gloves. Very tentatively, he retrieved the small bag and upended it. Three rounded metal objects – two of them hooked to chains – dropped onto the carpet. One last quick shake emptied the bag, causing two small diamonds to fall to the floor. Intrigued, the Lieutenant glanced up excitedly. "Mr. Monk, may I borrow your tweezers for a moment please?" he asked with a hint of excitement.

"Certainly." Monk reached into the shirt pocket beneath a clean sweater and pulled out his toolkit. He handed over the tweezers and watched intently while Columbo used it to pick up one of the diamonds.

"These are small ones, probably worth less than a thousand dollars each," noted the Lieutenant. "Our burglar was in a hurry and must have missed them."

"I would imagine there were a lot more in that sack a few hours ago," guessed Stottlemeyer. "Unfortunately, the intruder managed to find what he was looking for… Van Portman's private stash."

"_One_ of them," stressed Natalie. "I can tell you from experience that Frank Lauden is still busy searching desperately for something hidden at the zoo, where – if you remember – we ourselves found… hello, diamonds! There _have_ to be more of them, and judging by Lauden's behavior I would guess a _lot_ more."

"What are those small electronic devices?" queried Disher, pointing toward the three metallic orbs resting on the carpeted floor. Small metallic chains hung from two of them.

"They would appear to be standard GPS devices, available at any electronics store," Burke stated in response. He too was wearing gloves and he picked up one of the orbs still hooked to a chain and casually switched it on. It dangled in front of him with a small white light blinking steadily on and off. "Once activated, just carry it with you or place it in the glove compartment of your car and you can use a simple hand unit to pinpoint your precise location – anywhere you choose to go."

Standing next to Natalie, Monk's eyes widened as he listened to the Sergeant's explanation. He turned toward Natalie with a triumphant look of glee and she reacted instantly. "You did it _again_, didn't you?" shrieked Natalie with delight. "You figured it out!"

"GPS location technology," Monk breathed slowly. He walked over toward Columbo and Burke so that he could study the devices more closely. "Look," he told them all, pointing toward the _third_ device, the only one without a chain. "I think I _know_ what triggered the murder at the zoo last Friday morning," he declared elatedly. "In fact, I'm certain of it."

Stottlemeyer folded his arms with a proud grin. "Okay Monk," he said gruffly. "Let's hear it."

"Yes, tell us what you know," added a clearly intrigued Columbo.

Retrieving his tweezers from the Lieutenant, Monk clamped its ends around one of the GPS devices and held it up in front of him. "Do you remember the small chain hanging in the briefcase found next to Petersen's body?" he asked them. "At the time I had thought that it was there to hold a set of keys – many briefcases have something like that or at minimum a metal loop to clip them on." He nodded slowly, smiling slyly as the last few pieces of his mental jigsaw puzzle fell into place. "This GPS locator was probably _in_ that briefcase, and its presence _there_ and now _here_ explains an awful lot."

"Someone slashed the inside of that briefcase with a knife," Columbo reminded him. "And it was buried and dug up a total of _three_ times… you told us that yourself. How can you possibly know everything?"

"We can't know the whole truth… _yet_," stressed Monk, but he continued to smile with obvious satisfaction. "When we're done here, bring in Frank Lauden and Mike Van Portman for questioning. Both of them know the rest and can fill in the specific details for you. If they don't, throw the book at them."

Monk's declaration had attracted both Stottlemeyer and Disher farther into the small bedroom. Disher elbowed Columbo lightly and chuckled. "_Watch_ this…" he said, eyes bright with anticipation.

"_Here's_ what happened…" began Monk slowly. "Van Portman has been stealing from Handsome Stranger and his other clients for years – we already know that. Secretly he was wearing a disguise so that he could leave his office and come back without being recognized. Anyone who saw him would simply think that the bald man was just another one of his clients. This allowed him to carry large amounts of cash around in broad daylight to local jewel wholesalers and trade it for diamonds… gemstones that were much smaller and easier to conceal." He pointed toward the half open suitcase in the closet, where clothes and shaving supplies were scattered all over the floor. "His master plan was to eventually take his small fortune and move somewhere else. Judging by the multiple fake drivers' licenses lying on the desk, I conclude that he was probably going to assume a totally new identity. But he needed to wait a while…"

"Why?" asked Columbo politely, although he was clearly focusing on every word.

"To allow his most recently forged documents time to drift as far into the past as possible. _If _Van Portman simply quit his job and told his employer that he was moving on, the person who _replaced_ him would gain complete access to his files. Current documentation would therefore be subject to audit or examination and his forgeries might be discovered before he had the time needed to totally disappear. He can change his identity, but he can't change distinguishing characteristics like fingerprints. He would leave a _trail_. So he wanted at least a year or two to pass so that non-current files would be boxed up and dead filed for shredding. This strategy also allowed him the luxury of waiting to see if anyone was paying attention… if his embezzlements would be noticed."

"Shredding takes place every eighth year of a document's life," pointed out Randy. "The IRS can and will go back farther if they suspect tax fraud, but they strongly recommend that _all_ documentation be kept for at least seven years."

The Lieutenant nodded. "Go on," he suggested eagerly. "It sounds like you're on the right track."

"The longer Van Portman's thievery went undiscovered, the easier it would be for him to move elsewhere and simply become someone else. Even if he traveled to a different country he wouldn't be completely safe, because most of the good ones have extradition laws. The important point is that he needed time to prepare and he needed a suitable place to stash the majority of his diamonds. As we've already seen, someone else already knows about all of this and has taken the gemstones that were stored _here_. That's why Van Portman initially approached Devon Petersen and Frank Lauden and convinced them to get jobs at the zoo. In return for hiding his fortune, he would pay them more money than they could ever hope to earn on their own. It was an easy deal for two people with dubious backgrounds, but he wasn't stupid enough to completely trust them." Monk waved the GPS device clamped in his tweezers back and forth for everyone to see. "He put _this_ in the briefcase, probably concealing it so that neither Lauden nor Petersen would realize it was there. Then he had the two of them bury it in the zoo for safekeeping. The zoo is a public place, and the areas accessible only to employees would be the _perfect_ hiding spot."

"Why was the briefcase dug up and then buried again _three_ times?" wondered Stottlemeyer. "I have to admit, that little item has been puzzling me ever since we examined it."

"Part of it was due to greed," Monk continued confidently. "If you were someone like Devon Peterson or Frank Lauden and you knew that a fortune in diamonds was buried nearby, would you simply _wait_ to hear back from Van Portman?"

"_Especially_ when Lauden has gambling debts to repay… a lot of 'em," added Columbo. "We've been able to verify that too. I think you're on the right track, Mr. Monk. Please continue."

"One or both of those two decided to dig up the briefcase so that they could take a few of the diamonds and cash them in for easy spending money. Then they buried it again, hoping that Van Portman wouldn't have time for an exact inventory once he decided to make his break to a new life. It really doesn't matter if one of them did it or they cooperated… the important matter is that this is specifically _why_ the briefcase was retrieved the first time."

Listening intently to her boss, Natalie's curiosity got the better of her. "And the other two times?"

"You and Julie were watching Frank Lauden at the zoo while we were interviewing Laura Petersen," Monk reminded her. "So you didn't hear how utterly frustrated she was that Lauden had tempted her husband back into affairs that were not entirely legal. They were husband and wife – I'm virtually certain that she made him tell her everything. Mrs. Petersen would have known that a man like Van Portman would discover the thievery, or she would suspect that he would never pay off his allies… it would be so much easier to kill them and dispose of loose ends. Their family life was threatened by her husband's involvement. After meeting her personally, I am fully convinced that she is exactly the type of person who would do something to preserve the safety of that family. She and the daughter were leverage that a man like Van Portman could use against Petersen."

"I agree," said Stottlemeyer bluntly, nodding toward Columbo. "I told you in my report that I got the distinct impression that Mrs. Petersen knows more than she is telling."

"Yes you did," acknowledged Columbo. Both men shifted their attention back to Monk.

"Petersen dug up the briefcase all by himself the second time," continued Monk. "But he and his wife were suspicious, and he used a knife to search the entire briefcase. The concept of Van Portman just trusting them with all of those diamonds probably didn't make sense. He found the GPS locator and realized instantly that his plan to trade the gemstones for his life and the lives of his family would never work. Van Portman would _know_ the instant he moved the briefcase. So he removed _only_ the diamonds, reburied it, and then slipped the diamonds out of the zoo. Maybe he passed them to his wife through the fence one night… we can only speculate on that point. What is important is that the diamonds were now out of the zoo and Mr. and Mrs. Petersen were in position to make a deal with Van Portman."

"So why didn't they?" asked Disher.

"Because deep down Devon Petersen was _not_ the man that Frank Lauden was. Essentially he was a decent family man occasionally tempted by self-destructive behavior. I believe he acted without his wife's knowledge last Friday morning. As soon as he was on duty and an opportunity presented itself, he went out into the zoo grounds to the hiding place and dug up the briefcase for the _third_ time. And _this_ time he moved it just far enough to a new location so that Van Portman would realize that his precious fortune was in danger. He _knew_ that this action would draw his adversary right to him."

"Perhaps he was going to make a private deal right then and there with Van Portman," Columbo mused thoughtfully. "But he was killed before he could present his argument."

"Maybe he panicked," speculated Natalie.

"Once again, we need witnesses to fill in the missing details," decided Monk. "I personally believe that Petersen very nobly dug up the briefcase that third time in order to sacrifice _himself_ to save his family. He knew his wife would never approve, but with him dead and the diamonds gone there would be no reason for Van Portman to threaten either her or their daughter. Just look at what has happened since he acted – Frank Lauden has been frantically searching the zoo for the missing diamonds and Van Portman has been scrambling, fully prepared to flee with only _part_ of his fortune. He's probably sitting out there on the streets somewhere right now, panicked and uncertain of what to do. After what happened in the parking garage, he certainly can't come back to _this_ place. And he's probably distraught, not knowing for sure yet whether or not Paul Scaribelli survived today's attack."

"That's really good Monk, but it's far from a perfect theory," concluded Stottlemeyer, rubbing his thick mustache as he mentally reviewed the analysis. "If Laura Petersen does indeed have the diamonds in her possession, then Van Portman would automatically go after her. Isn't that the exact _opposite_ of what Petersen's sacrifice was supposed to achieve?"

Without warning Columbo started laughing heartily. He guffawed for a long moment while Stottlemeyer, Disher and Natalie watched with surprised amazement, eyebrows raised. They had no idea why the Lieutenant thought that the Captain's statement was so amusing. Finally, Columbo's amused mood subsided somewhat, and he glanced at Monk with a light chuckle. "May I?" he asked politely. "Can I give this a try?"

"By all means," Monk responded, smiling slyly. "Tell them."

"Thank you very much." Columbo turned toward the other two while Natalie watched with utter fascination. "In Mr. Monk's defense, I would like to point out that _neither _Mr. Van Portman nor Mr. Lauden has _any_ idea that Mrs. Petersen has the diamonds," he informed them.

"They don't?" Clearly puzzled, Disher scratched his dark hair.

"At most," continued Columbo, "those two believe the briefcase was dug up _twice_… the first time when Mr. Lauden was involved and the last time when Petersen physically moved it. If they _did_ know about the second time then Frank Lauden would not believe so conclusively that the diamonds are still hidden in the zoo! He is obsessed with finding them there because he and Mr. Van Portman confronted and killed Devon Petersen _before_ he could leave the zoo. They don't think he ever got them past the fence."

"The only reason _we_ know that the briefcase was dug up _three_ times instead of _two_ is because Lt. Columbo and I are forensic specialists when it comes to dried mud," added Monk cheerfully. "Our two suspects? _They_ were more concerned with what wasn't _in_ the briefcase then they were with the briefcase itself, which is one of the reasons they so easily discarded it. Van Portman retrieved his GPS locator, tearing it from its chain out of sheer frustration. Then he left the briefcase behind because it was cut up and useless – it would have been extremely difficult to get rid of later without risk of detection."

For a moment, the room was filled with silence as everyone took some time to carefully think through Monk's analysis. "That sounds good enough for me," rumbled Stottlemeyer finally. "It's easily tested by bringing in Frank Lauden, and we can interrogate him while we're looking for Van Portman."

Glancing at his watch, Columbo frowned slightly. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow," he pointed out disappointedly. "Lauden is already at work by now, and he's a tough nut to crack. If we're going to get anything useful out of him, we need to find a way to rattle his cage." He leaned the hollow bedpost up against the bed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And I have an idea about how to do that."

They were still discussing options several minutes later when Sergeant Burke poked his head through the bedroom door. "We have a new problem," he announced, his mood noticeably darker. "A patrol car just located Michael Van Portman, but there's a catch."

"And what would that be?" asked an interested Lt. Columbo.

"He's dead," continued Burke. "Someone shot him at least four times and then dumped his body in a ditch along a small frontage road in one of the suburbs."

"Was it Frank Lauden?" wondered a flabbergasted Natalie.

"Impossible," Burke informed her. "Sergeant Pearson has been watching him at the zoo ever since he started his shift."

Columbo turned toward Monk and eyed him with renewed vigor. "Now isn't that a fine kettle of fish," he commented, mystified by the news. "I wonder if the person who killed Van Portman is the _same_ person that tore this place apart."

"There are still pieces to this puzzle that we don't know anything about," Monk speculated.

"Well we're going to find those pieces for you, Mr. Monk," Columbo declared fiercely. "And we'll start by squeezing every last drop of information that we can out of Mr. Frank Lauden."


	11. A Broken Chain Of Lies

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**A Broken Chain Of Lies**

* * *

><p><em>Monday evening, 11:38 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p><em>Adrian Monk unexpectedly found himself standing back in the parking garage, somewhat uncertain of just how exactly he had arrived there. It didn't make sense particularly since he was in Los Angeles and had no direct access to a vehicle. Looking around, he studied the concrete pillars, the overhead ceiling and finally the asphalt beneath his feet. Then he shifted his gaze to the rows of cars parked to his left and to his right. The elevator was nearby, and his eyes found the sign hanging there that read 'Reserved – VIP Parking Only'. Ah, he thought quietly to himself. That explained why some of the slots on the third level were empty in the middle of a business day… only authorized personnel could make use of them. Somewhat tentatively, he took a few cautious steps forward.<em>

_This time around he was remembering things that he had noticed on the first trip but never had time to process. Most of the vehicles in the VIP slots were very, very upscale… not affordable to the average, ordinary American. At a glance he studied the familiar lines of two Cadillacs, half a dozen Mercedes and three BMWs. Since the offices on the third floor were staffed with investment counselors who primarily served the filthy rich, he guessed that many of the vehicles belonged to them. There were cracks in the asphalt beneath the car tires, but only the minor damage caused over time by the daily back and forth traffic of automobiles. When he spotted Paul Scaribelli walking casually toward him, he finally recognized that he was in the middle of some kind of dream._

"_You have to save me," said Scaribelli, concern etched into the curving lines of his youthful face. His soft, clean brown hair was neatly feathered on both sides, a precision technique generally unknown to most men. The accountant's nails were neatly trimmed and his hands small and petite – hard physical work and heavy lifting was quite obviously something that he rarely engaged in. The strong scent of a popular male aftershave touched Monk's nostrils._

"_I… we… did save you," Monk responded politely, holding out his hands in front of him._

"_Please," pleaded Paul Scaribelli, a hint of desperation touching his features. "You _have_ to save me!"_

_The accountant had slowed his approach and was now standing only several feet away from Monk. He had left his suit jacket in the Cadillac and was wearing only a light brown shirt with a black and orange tie, the same apparel that he had been wearing earlier in the day. His neatly ironed, dark brown slacks outlined his long legs and touched the tops of his dark black dress shoes. He appeared, for all intents and purposes, to have suffered no injury. This perplexed Monk more than a little, who could clearly remember a brief glimpse of the accountant's ashen face as he was being loaded into the back of an ambulance._

_Again Monk reminded himself that he was dreaming, and he struggled to wake himself up. His slumber was too deep, however, and for the moment it controlled him. Even though he knew that what he saw was not real, he was completely unable to terminate the experience. The helplessness frustrated him, and a knot of fear began to form in his gut in response to it. "Everything is going to be all right," noted Monk reassuringly. He smiled weakly at the accountant, feeling a great deal of discomfort as he did so. He was unused to expressing a positive emotion on demand. "Really, the people working at the hospital will do their best to save you. I don't have to…"_

_He trailed off, realizing that something was wrong when he saw the first spot of red appear on Scaribelli's shirt. It was on the left side, right where Mike Van Portman's knife had entered his body. The fabric of the shirt parted as though an invisible knife was being inserted into the accountant and then a fresh torrent of blood began to flow. This time, however, the mere sight of it filled Monk with terror and he began backing away. "Help me," begged Paul Scaribelli weakly, taking several steps forward. "Please…"_

"_I… can't," said Monk reflexively, raising his hands farther so that he didn't have to watch the blood spurting out onto the asphalt. "I can't stand… all of the… the _blood!_" Inexplicably Scaribelli remained standing, although a fresh pool of his own blood had begun to form around his shoes._

"Please!_" Scaribelli repeated, his tone more insistent. "_Save_ me!" He reached out an arm toward Monk, who was peeking through the back of his fingers. The accountant had obviously reached down and touched his terrible wound at some point during their discussion, because thick wet blood was dripping almost non-stop from the tips of his fingers._

_Instead of replying, Monk dropped to his knees and began to shake uncontrollably. Tears ran down his cheeks and he realized that he had begun crying at some point. Although he wanted very desperately to try and help Mr. Scaribelli, his body was frozen in place and the trembling continued. His intellect remained, however, and it occurred to him that people often could not move while dreaming. He tried something new and willed himself to jump. Surprisingly there was a reaction this time and he rose immediately into the air, moving forward toward the wounded accountant. Unfortunately, his attempt to jump turned into a makeshift flying effort that would have actually succeeded if he had simply stopped rising._

But he didn't.

_Helplessly, Monk watched from above as Paul Scaribelli continued to bleed uncontrollably. The accountant never glanced up as the former detective floated past him. He simply stood there, bleeding non-stop from his wound until he grew so weak that he toppled over backwards. Monk was sobbing helplessly, watching Scaribelli's glazed eyes and ashen features while waiting for his own head to hit the concrete roof of the garage. He was still rising and could not stop himself, so he closed his eyes for a moment. Emotions he had thought to be cleanly suppressed earlier in the day were now suddenly boiling uncontrollably within him. Still crying in short bursts of raw emotion, he waited for the inevitable collision. When the expected impact did not occur, he slowly opened his eyes and noticed that everything around him had disappeared._

_The entire parking garage had vanished, along with the injured body of Paul Scaribelli, and he was lying flat on the bed in his hotel room. Around him there was golden light shining everywhere, most of it illuminating the familiar face and curvy figure of the woman sitting on the edge of his bed. "_Trudy_," he gasped with a grateful smile of recognition. "It's you!"_

Her mere presence both warmed and calmed him.

"_You don't have to be afraid any longer Adrian," his wife told him simply. "You were a hero today… you saved a life in an emergency situation where many others would have stood by helplessly. In addition to all the people you have brought to justice over the years, _you saved a life today!_"_

"_I had help," growled Monk softly, always hesitant to accept praise. "The Lieutenant knew what he was doing. I just reacted instinctively in response to what he did."_

"_You were _wonderful_ Adrian, my beloved husband," insisted Trudy. "Have you noticed, over the years, that your response to stressful and difficult situations is usually much better than you expect?" She smiled with warmth and love and ran the fingers of her left hand gently across the blankets covering his leg. "When push comes to shove, you're much tougher than you give yourself credit for."_

"_The dream tells me the truth… I would have been paralyzed with fear if I was alone."_

"_But Adrian, you're only alone in your dreams now," Trudy said persistently. "You have all kinds of people around you who love and care about you. No one could ask for more than that. All of them love you as I do… as you love me."_

"_No one will ever love me the way you did… the way that you do," countered Monk, unwilling to accept her statement. She had touched his life so strongly that he still felt her presence each and every day._

_Trudy shook her head negatively, frowning with mild amusement. "There may not be the romantic attachment that you and I share, but Captain Stottlemeyer is your _friend_. He is not just another cop to you, nor are you to him. You both share a bond of trust that is very strong. It is much the same with Randy Disher." Her smile continued to fill him with a warmth and light that rivaled the golden aura surrounding his wife. "I suspect a similar bond is forming between you and Columbo, even though it's plainly obvious that you're still a bit reluctant to overlook the things you don't like about him. Time will solve that, just as it did with Natalie and Sharona. There are two more people who care for you more than a casual friend ever could. All of these people, Adrian, all of them care for you _unconditionally_. That's the kind of love I'm talking about… the truly rare and unconditional love shared between couples, between parents and children, between the very best of friends…"_

_He mulled over her words silently before answering. "Perhaps."_

"Not_ perhaps. You are notorious for complaining a lot, but I'm always watching. I see you bend over backwards to help them when they need you, and in turn they are always around when you need them. Continue to be strong, Adrian. You are very close to solving yet another big case. You have already contributed a great deal and saved a young man's life in the process."_

"_Molly told me once that I had to continue working, to continue solving cases _because_ of you," he informed her. "She said that 'there are other Trudys out there who need your help'."_

"_Yes."_

_The light in her eyes captivated him. Each time she appeared to him in a dream she looked exactly like he remembered her, young and beautiful and filled to the rim with the incredible spark of life. The bitterness caused by the events that had taken her from him was easily overpowered by the positive emotions generated by her presence during these rare times. "Molly was right," he concluded. "Violent crime leaves behind more than bodies, it leaves behind victims like Laura Petersen and her daughter. That's why I do this… because I have the ability and the determination."_

"_Yes," Trudy repeated softly. He sat up as she moved across the bed and put her arms around him. She hugged him tightly to her and the feeling was remarkably refreshing. Monk could not immediately recall the last time he had felt so at peace with himself. "You're never alone Adrian," his wife stated firmly. "You've made remarkable progress since I left you, and you will continue to do okay, as long as you remember that."_

"_Since you were _taken_ from me." Tears streamed down his face as he held her firmly, the emotion pouring out of him now totally unrestrained. For one brief moment the two of them were connected once again as man and wife. Then she began to fade away, still smiling proudly at him. "Don't go," Monk pleaded, watching her gradually vanish. "Please don't go Trudy, I see you less and less these days…"_

"_That's a good thing," she suggested with a warm smile. "It means you're getting better with each passing day. Enjoy life and remember me always husband. But know deep down that you're _never_ alone. I will _always_ be a part of you." The soft, golden aura surrounding her faded…_

He woke up seconds later, still crying softly as he shed the emotion that had seemed so easily suppressed earlier in the day. To his surprise, Natalie was there, arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly just as Trudy had done. "It's okay Mr. Monk," whispered Natalie. "I knew you were hurting more than you let on, and I told you that I'd keep an eye on you. Didn't I?" She chuckled at his startled look of amazement. "You had a nightmare. I could hear you crying out in your sleep from the other room."

Glancing to his right, Monk noticed that the common door connecting their rooms was wide open. Trudy was correct… he had never really been alone. Somehow, some way, Natalie and the rest of his friends were always there for him.

* * *

><p><em>Monday evening, 11:48 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Old Ed Mertz was the only one in the office building when Frank Lauden returned from his latest walk around the zoo. He set his flashlight in a basket next to the doorway and glanced quizzically around the room. "Where is Simmons?" he asked curiously. "I thought you had a lot of paperwork."<p>

"I sent him out for a pizza and other essential supplies," replied Mertz informatively from his seat at one of the computer work stations. "I asked him to swing by one of those fancy coffee shops and get us something decent to drink for once."

"Oh sweet baby, it's a great night to work late," Lauden nodded agreeably. "What do you need me to do next? I'll do just about anything for a decent cup of coffee."

Mertz responded by standing up and handing Lauden a blank compact disk in a thin, black plastic case. "It will be past midnight in a few minutes, and the first of the month," he pointed out. "I need someone to copy the security system backup files to this CD before I reset them on the main system."

A warning bell sounded in the back of Lauden's mind. "Backup files? I didn't know our system has _backup_ files. When did that little tidbit of knowledge get by me? I haven't missed any of your staff meetings…"

"That's because I don't generally let new employees know about much of the system until after they've been employed long enough to be trustworthy," continued Ed with an amused smirk. "But I think you're a good kid… and you've already taken a healthy hit on the noggin for this team." He gestured toward the chair he had just vacated. "I'm still logged on, so you don't need any special access rights. There's just a couple of simple text files in a sub-folder called 'backup'… it's tucked in with the regular system files but hidden from every log-in code except mine. Just copy them onto the disk and I'll reset the system for the new month when I get back." He pulled out his cell phone and rolled his eyes. "My kid is sick today, and I promised the wife that I would call and check in before it gets too late."

Leaving Frank Lauden behind, he opened the east door and stepped outside into the fresh night air for a little privacy. The electronic beep-beeping caused by his stubby fingers on the small cell phone's key pad followed him out. Lauden watched Mertz vanish, and a sudden stab of fear clawed fiercely at his gut. _Backup files? There aren't supposed to BE any backup files!_ His mind racing, he sat down at old Ed's former work station and began studying the screen. As specified, his boss had left the terminal logged on, and he could clearly see the sub-folder that the old man had referred to. He had been on edge all evening, since the news of Mike Van Portman's unexpected death had already reached both the TV news and radio. By morning the police would no doubt have completed a thorough search of Van Portman's office and home. Although the other had been careful not to have a direct association with Frank Lauden or Devon Petersen, Lauden was still extremely agitated by the news.

_Who the hell would have killed Van Portman? Did that person know about the diamonds? About him?_

_Relax_, Lauden tried to tell himself silently. _Van Portman deliberately created the perfect alibi for you. All you have to do is stick to your story and you'll be safe_. For a moment he sat in Ed's chair and stared at the screen, studying the short list of text files on the fully lit display screen. The anxiety gnawing away inside of him refused to go away, however, primarily because he was beginning to realize that his alibi was far from perfect. The text file that he had changed on the night of Petersen's murder, for instance, was one of the data files also contained in the backup sub-folder. There was little doubt in Lauden's mind that all entries added into the main file were instantly echoed by the system and copied to the corresponding backup file in the sub-folder. Opening it with a quick double-click of his finger on the left mouse button, he verified his theory.

_There, in front of him, was last Friday's unaltered keycard entry._

The data listed clearly showed his authorization code instead of Devon Petersen's, betraying the crucial fact that Lauden's key card was the access mechanism that had been used to admit Van Portman into the zoo. Frustrated, Lauden clicked on the damning entry glowing brightly on the screen in front of him and changed the numbers implicating him to match Petersen's code. Details from the night of the murder were still burned permanently into his mind, so he remembered the necessary information instantly. Once he was done, he carefully and meticulously checked the other files in the list, insuring that nothing in any of them looked out of the ordinary or in any way incriminated him. Most of the data was pretty standard, consisting mostly of a lengthy list of video identification codes. These were automatically indexed by the software, carefully organized to allow anyone searching through them to bring up historical footage from any of the zoo's many surveillance cameras.

More or less satisfied that he had at least temporarily dodged a proverbial bullet through sheer luck, Lauden pulled out a handkerchief and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. The internal fear subsided a bit, but this particular incident left yet another nagging doubt in the depths of his subconscious. _How many other surprises like this one were still waiting to be found… perhaps next time by someone other than him?_ He took a deep breath and then began following old Ed's instructions, copying the files from the backup folder to the CD. Once he was done, he removed the thin, silver disk from the data drive and smiled. In less than two minutes it would be after midnight and a brand new day. Unless there were any more surprises, all of the system information should now clearly show that Petersen had been the one to allow Van Portman into the zoo on the previous Friday. Lauden exhaled slowly, smiling with relief as he put yet another problem firmly into his past. Eventually Van Portman's death would be in the past too… all he had to do now was take his time and succeed in locating the missing diamonds.

_And when he found them, ALL of them would be his to keep_.

Lauden was still staring dumbly at the screen, thoughts racing, when the radio hooked to his belt emitted an unexpected, electronic crackle of feedback. "_Simmons to Lauden_," crackled an all too familiar voice. The noise caused him to jump in his chair and he snatched the device from the belt attachment, disgusted by his obvious jumpiness. The guilt weighing on his conscience was proving to be an emotional burden.

"What do you want Simmons?" he asked almost angrily. "I'm busy helping out old Ed."

"_I really think you should come out here for a minute_," replied his counterpart, completely undeterred by Lauden's obvious annoyance. "_I'm just outside the west side doorway near the employee parking lot. There's someone here to see you_."

With growing uneasiness, Lauden rose from the chair and glanced apprehensively toward the east door that old Ed had vanished behind. As though reading Lauden's mind, the door opened suddenly and the elderly security guard stepped back inside the office. Old Ed folded his arms firmly in front of him, frowning deeply. His earlier cheerful manner and enthusiasm had evaporated completely. "I think you better do exactly what Simmons told you to," he suggested firmly.

Perplexed by the old man's behavior, Frank Lauden shrugged and rose to his feet. He moved slowly toward the west door, still watching old Ed just standing there looking at him with a grim expression on his wrinkled face. The whole incident was really unnerving to him, because the radio call was strangely similar to the transmission he had used last Friday morning to bait Petersen and lure him out into the dark. He paused next to the door and peered out one of the windows next to it, noticing that there were three men standing out in the grass by the parking lot, just beneath one of the street lights. One of them was Simmons, curiously holding an open, active laptop computer. The second man was Sergeant Burke and next to him stood Lieutenant Columbo, wearing that old, all-too-familiar full length raincoat. The top of Columbo's body was surrounded by clouds of swirling cigar smoke and nearly hidden from sight. In the subdued lighting from the street lamp, the streaming threads of smoke looked almost ghost-like.

_This isn't going to end well_, Lauden's subconscious predicted silently. Forcing himself to smile, he walked cheerfully down the steps leading away from the doorway and walked toward the three men. "What's going on here Matt?" he asked Simmons curiously, doing his best to sound innocent. Glancing apprehensively backward, he noticed that Ed Mertz was standing imposingly in the doorway he had just vacated. He could feel the old man's eyes burning into his back like the targeting laser from an assault rifle.

"Actually," chuckled Columbo with a friendly smile, "it isn't Mr. Simmons who needs you. I want to ask you a few more questions."

"Such as?" Lauden added just a hint of defensiveness to his tone of voice, feigning significantly more courage than he felt.

"What did you just do in there, Mr. Lauden?"

"Huh?" The noticeably rattled security officer stared at Columbo for a moment, stunned. "What did I just _do_… is that what you just asked me?"

"Yes," continued the Lieutenant, gesturing toward the west entrance to the security building where Ed Mertz still stood watching them. A long stream of thick gray smoke poured off the end of Columbo's lit cigar, and it's tip glowed dully orange through the surrounding darkness. "In there. In the office. What did you just do… _in there?_"

"_I_… I was backing up computer files, for Mr. Mertz." Lauden's mind was racing and fear suddenly poured into his gut. He gestured back toward the doorway. "Ask him yourself… I was just following orders."

Columbo stepped forward, the smile vanishing from his face. "No Mr. Lauden," he declared sternly. "You _weren't_ following orders, as a matter of fact. And this time we've caught you in the act of _lying_ to the police." He pointed toward the laptop computer held by Matt Simmons. "Mr. Mertz's administrative console is broadcasting his screen image to this computer here. It's really remarkable what computers can do these days. This portable computer has allowed us to see everything displayed on Mr. Mertz's screen by watching from this laptop out here. When Ed left the building earlier using the east entrance, _you_ were the only one left in that building. I have another officer over there who will swear to that fact in court, should the need arise."

"We watched you change the backup file that logs security key card usage," Sergeant Burke explained stoically. "We saw you open the file and type Devon Petersen's code over the top of your own for the specific, unauthorized entry on the night of the murder. After that, you resaved the file. Only _then_ did you do what Mertz asked you to do."

"Why would you do that Mr. Lauden?" asked Columbo with just a hint of a smirk, chomping down on the cigar and taking a lengthy, deep puff. The subtle orange glow at its tip blazed fiercely for an instant. "If the statement that you gave us last Friday morning _is_ factually accurate, why in the world would you feel the need to risk doing something like that?"

His mind awhirl with confusion and puzzlement, Lauden said whatever he thought would sound plausible. "I didn't mean to open the file," he stated by way of explanation, although the words sounded flat and dumb as soon as he spoke them. "In trying to close out of it, I may have accidentally…"

"…you accidentally typed Devon Peterson's _exact_ key card code over the top of your own?" Columbo chuckled, clearly amused. "It's a _ten_ digit code Mr. Lauden. No, I don't think you did _anything_ accidentally. I think you did _exactly_ what you intended to do, but didn't know we were all gathered out here to watch you do it." He glanced over toward Matt Simmons and nodded firmly.

"There normally is no 'backup' subfolder," Simmons explained casually, responding to Columbo's non-verbal prompt. "At the Lieutenant's request, I created it this morning. Then we arranged for you to be alone in the office and asked old Ed to have you copy the subfolder and its contents to a backup disk. If you had simply done so, you would have proven your innocence. Instead…" The other security officer trailed off, unsure of what to say next. He looked first to Columbo and then shifted his gaze to watch Lauden's reaction. "Instead, you accessed the duplicate key card log file and kind of proved to them that you know more than you're telling…"

"I want to speak to a lawyer," snapped Lauden heatedly.

"I'm sure you do," Columbo nodded in response. "Frank Lauden, you're under arrest on suspicion of murder. At minimum, your lies and the withholding of vital information make you an accessory to that crime." He waved toward his colleague. "Sergeant Burke, please cuff this man and drive him downtown for additional questioning." He turned toward Mertz, still standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry sir," he stated sincerely. "You're going to have to call in someone to fill the rest of his shift."

"It will be my _pleasure_ to do so Lieutenant," snapped Mertz tersely in response.

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday morning, 8:18 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Frank Rory Lauden spent the rest of the night in the L.A. county jail. It took a while for the night staff on duty to process him, confiscate his clothes and personal belongings, and then issue him an orange jumpsuit. He was given a small snack and then escorted into an empty cell where he managed to sleep for a few hours on a dirty looking cot with a very old mattress. Once the morning arrived, however, an officer showed up promptly to handcuff him and escort the still rattled zoo security guard to a nearby interrogation room. Lauden wasn't at all surprised to see Columbo there waiting for him. A large mirror lining the far wall caused him to wonder just who else was standing on the other side of it, watching and waiting to see what would happen next.<p>

The Lieutenant looked exactly as he had the previous night, except that this time he wasn't smoking. His hair was still disheveled, he glanced at Lauden with that odd, cross-eyed stare of his, and the ever-present raincoat was still extremely rumpled. It was impossible to tell just by looking at him whether or not the detective had ever gone home for even a few minutes. Judging solely by his appearance, it was just as likely he had spent the entire night downtown, working in the L.A. Corrections Facility. He was seated behind a long, neatly polished wooden conference table.

"I never seem to get this right," commented Columbo idly as he did his best to peel a hard-boiled egg. "Mrs. Columbo likes to leave a bunch of these in the refrigerator at home, so I can grab one or two for a quick breakfast. If they get old, she makes egg salad out of them." He brushed bits and pieces of shell away from the cooked egg beneath, and finally tore it entirely in half. "_My_ wife, she can peel these things in the blink of an eye. Just scoops them out of the shell with a spoon. Me, I always struggle." He waved a hand casually at the officer escorting Lauden. The man nodded without saying anything, removed the handcuffs and eased Lauden into a chair in front of the table. He made sure to place the prisoner directly across from the Lieutenant before nodding and exiting the room. The sound of the heavy door closing in his wake reverberated through the small room. After that there was more or less silence for a time, broken only occasionally by the subtle sounds of Columbo's egg peeling. "Did you sleep well, Mr. Lauden?" the detective asked finally, glancing up at the other man.

"No," snapped Lauden sharply, noticing for the first time that another man was also in the room. He had been standing next to the door and thereby shielded from view until it had been closed. The newcomer was very young and square-jawed, with chestnut brown, neatly styled hair. He wore a formal three piece business suit and looked very professional. Wordlessly the stranger walked past Lauden and pulled out a chair next to the security guard before seating himself. He breathed in deeply, carefully scrutinizing Lauden and sizing him up. After that, he set a briefcase on the table and snapped open its clasps.

"This is Mr. Ted Rogers," continued Columbo, nibbling on part of his egg. He brushed some of the shell pieces away with a napkin. "He's your court appointed attorney. I believe you requested one."

"I don't like him," decided Lauden. "This kid looks barely old enough to have graduated from law school."

Shrugging his shoulders indifferently, Columbo smiled. "You're welcome to call anyone you want to replace him," the detective stated informatively. "You neglected to do so last night during processing, which is why Mr. Rogers was summoned here this morning."

"I don't usually… _need_… a lawyer," admitted Lauden regretfully. "They have a tendency to charge a lot of money… I'm not exactly in the upper middle class."

"Well you're going to need a lawyer today," said Columbo, continuing to eat the egg. His right hand was busy assembling the broken shell pieces into a small pile on the surface of the long wooden table. "I don't like it very much when people lie to the police. And _you_, Mr. Lauden, well you've been _lying_ to us from day one."

"I have _not!_" Lauden insisted stubbornly. "I _told_ your people… I was hit on the head and barely conscious when Peters… when _Devon_ was killed. How could I _possibly_ be lying to you? How could I possibly be _involved_ in anything illegal? I was dizzy and bleeding."

The detective leaned forward, elbows on the table top, and studied Lauden's thin, angular face. "If you're not involved, _why_ did you change the backup computer file last night? _Why_ would you do that, sir?"

There was a lengthy pause as Frank Lauden reviewed mentally what he was going to say in response to that question. He had thought about the entire matter for quite a while during his night in the jail cell. He opened his mouth to say something but the lawyer held up a cautionary hand. "Be _carefu_l how you answer that question, Mr. Lauden," said the lawyer, speaking for the first time. "You're making another sworn statement here today. If this one conflicts with the last statement, well… that would be bad."

"Petersen didn't… die right away…" Lauden began finally, speaking slowly but firmly. "Right before he passed away I recovered consciousness, and he asked me to change the computer logs to protect his family. He didn't want criminal activity on his part to implicate his wife and daughter, especially if he wasn't around to protect them."

Throwing up his hands with frustration, Columbo simply shook his head. "You just did it again, Mr. Lauden!" he exclaimed angrily. "You lied _again!_"

"I did _not!_" snarled Lauden defensively, leaning forward in the chair, his posture completely defensive. His bravado faded somewhat when he noticed Ted Rogers, quietly sitting next to him while busily scribbling on a notepad.

"If you're not lying to me, then why didn't you tell me that story _last_ night when I asked you the question the first time?" countered Columbo. He reached into his raincoat and removed a brown envelope, tossing it on the table top for emphasis. "These are pictures of the footprints from the zoo that were taken shortly after Mr. Petersen died," noted the Lieutenant. "They prove that you talked to Mr. Van Portman in Eucalyptus Grove and then the two of you proceeded to confront Mr. Petersen. There's absolutely no indication that Devon Petersen was _ever_ alone with Van Portman. How can that possibly be _if_, as you say, Mr. Petersen let him into the zoo?"

"I _don't_… I don't know!" replied Lauden, putting his head into his hands and trying hard to think straight. After a moment he looked up sharply at Columbo. "Aren't pictures of footprints circumstantial evidence? How can you possibly prove who stood where on that night?"

"Normally they would be circumstantial evidence. However, combined with what we've learned since, along with your performance last night, I think I have enough to convict you of murder should I choose to charge you with that crime."

"_Murder?_ I didn't kill him! I _didn't!_"

"How am I supposed to know that when you lie about what happened?" roared Columbo heatedly. He took a moment to calm himself before continuing. "You are correct about us not knowing exactly what happened that night. But that turns out to be bad for _you_. We strongly suspect, based on all available evidence, that Van Portman is the man who actually killed Devon Petersen after the three of you argued about diamonds. However, _you_ could just as easily have done it, and then your accessory hit you over the head to provide you with an alibi while he left the zoo."

"The footprints…" For the first time, Lauden's conscience was screaming at him in response to his own stupidity. _Van Portman is dead and can't make any statements. YOU could get stuck with the ENTIRE murder_, a soft voice whispered inside his mind.

"I have molds made from _your_ footprints, from your work shoes and from Van Portman's tracks. We also found Van Portman's shoes – shoes that precisely match the footprints he left behind in the zoo – when we searched his apartment."

Ted Rogers shook his head with sympathy. "I _told_ you to be careful when answering questions," he noted, watching Lauden flush angrily in response to the statement.

"You see, I have a really big problem now where you're concerned, Mr. Lauden." Columbo sighed with dismay and studied the other man carefully. "Your statement given to Sergeant Burke's team on the night of the murder has turned out to be untrue. You lied to us again last night when we caught you red-handed changing computer files and then you lied again just now." The Lieutenant fell silent for a moment, long enough for his words to register. "The footprint photos alone might not be enough to convict you, but combined with your deliberate attempts to mislead and withhold information vital to this investigation…" He trailed off, eyes flashing. "Look at things from our point of view for a moment… you're starting to look less and less like an accessory and more and more like a murderer with each passing minute."

"_I_ did _not_ kill Devon Petersen!"

"Then _who_ did?" thundered Columbo fiercely, the anger in his voice instantly restored. "Van Portman?" His eyes blazed fiercely as he stared at the suspect seated across from him. "We _know_ about the diamonds you were fighting over, and I want the whole truth this time… _all of it!_" He pointed an index finger sharply in Lauden's direction. "You should know that I am _required_ to make a recommendation in my report to the prosecutor, regarding what or what not to charge you with. So I'm telling you now, Mr. Lauden… if you lie to me _one_ more time or withhold even _one_ minor detail, I'm going to request that our prosecutor throw the book at you and lock you up for as long as the law allows."

_Minutes later, a sobbing Frank Lauden gave in and told Columbo everything he knew about what REALLY happened in the zoo during the early morning murder of Devon Petersen._


	12. Selective Memory Syndrome

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Selective Memory Syndrome**

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday morning, 8:18 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>The dark warmth and comfort that surrounded Paul Scaribelli like an infant in its mother's womb faded gradually away. At first he was only slightly aware of the voices – whispers and short, stunted sentences exchanged by people who were obviously in a hurry. Next he smelled flowers – an aroma so strong that there had to be a great deal of them somewhere nearby. Finally his eyesight began to clear and he could actually see doctors and nurses moving back and forth across the small room he was in. The pain in his left side had faded to a dull throb, but it was still there and he vaguely began to recall the attack on his life and those brief few moments before he blacked out entirely. Electronic chirps and beeps reached his ears, emitted by all of the medical equipment that surrounded him on both sides. Raising his right hand slightly, long enough to get a look at the white tape covering the IV insert, he groaned audibly.<p>

"Oh thank _God!_" he heard the voice of his mother say, right before she switched languages and continued her worried speech in a frenetic burst of Italian. She was sitting across from him, in a large easy chair surrounded by colorful floral arrangements, her face chalk white with concern.

Next Paul noticed a tall, broad-shouldered African-American Doctor in a white lab coat standing at the foot of his bed. He caught Bernadine Scaribelli by the arm, helped her to her feet and smiled reassuringly at her. "I told you Mrs. Scaribelli," he stated calmly. "Your son came through surgery just fine and was simply sleeping off the residual sedation."

"You can stay with him for a while if you don't touch him," continued a tall, thin nurse with her dark, graying hair tied back in a long braid. "Your son needs _rest_… and a lot of it."

"You might want to speak briefly with those officers outside," said the Doctor to the nurse. "They're going to want to come in here too, at least for a few minutes." He glanced down at the watch on his left hand. "Give them a half hour, no more. At 8:45, I want this room cleared of all visitors at least until lunch time. We did a lot of work on this young fellow, and he needs to recuperate."

"Yes Doctor."

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to register, longer than Scaribelli had expected. But with his memory gradually overpowering the dizziness and confusion saturating his mind, he began to realize just how badly he had been injured. If they had indeed sedated him and then put him through surgery, it made sense that his mind would be slightly disoriented upon awakening. His eyes roved the room, noticing things he wouldn't ordinarily have seen. He instantly hated the wallpaper pattern decorated with pieces of fruit, and the spackling process that had been used on the ceiling had left some mighty large lumps. Also, he took note of the fact that the paint looked fresh and new – either he was in a recently refurbished room or a completely new one.

"Paul, Paulie, can you hear your mother?" The round, wrinkled face of his mother appeared suddenly above him, and Paul noticed immediately that her eyes were bloodshot and damp from crying. Her graying, chestnut brown hair hung in relative disarray around her shoulders. "Are you okay Paulie?"

He groaned once more and then reached up, grabbing her left hand with his right. "I'm okay Mamma," he said uneasily, struggling to focus his attention. Every so often, the room around him began a slow, counter-clockwise spin. "But it wasn't looking good there for a while. What happened?"

"What _happened?_" Mrs. Scaribelli pulled her hand back as if it had been shocked. "The _chances_ you take!" she snapped at him, concern transformed instantly to anger. "You were attacked – _stabbed_ even, by that Van Portman fellow. He would have _killed_ you if Mr. Monk and other police men hadn't already been on the scene. You were so _foolish_ to confront a criminal all by yourself!"

Blinking away the last of the dizziness, Paul Scaribelli smiled weakly at her. "In retrospect, waiting a few minutes longer for the police to arrive would seem to have been a more appropriate action."

His mother laughed loudly upon hearing his subtle sense of humor kick in, but most of her emotion was relief and not cheerfulness. The spark of life in his eyes seemed to be a bit stronger too, but he still looked so pale and weak to her. "The police _are_ here, waiting for you to regain consciousness," she informed him. "They need to speak to you for a few minutes… to ask you more questions." Her mouth tightened into a deep frown. "But only a few… I want you resting too."

"They're welcome to come in and ask, but I pretty much remember telling them everything I know right before I lost consciousness," he told his mother wearily. "Did they get Van Portman? Is he in jail?" The look on his mother's face generated instant fear in Scaribelli's gut. "He didn't _escape_, did he…?"

"No," his mother replied, shaking her head briskly from side to side. "He ran away, but someone other than the police found him first and shot him dead." Anger filled her reddened eyes. "Justice, if only of a sort."

"_Dead?_" Scaribelli tried to sit up using the slightly inclined mattress beneath him as a booster, but the pain in his side grew almost instantly and he reluctantly relaxed his body. "_Who_ would kill him? Why?"

"Who indeed?" His mother shrugged uncertainly. "L.A. is full of criminals… it could be anybody. Perhaps that is what the police are interested in talking to you about."

Paul shook his head wryly. "Van Portman dead? That seems odd, given the circumstances." He looked at his mother, studying her worried brown eyes carefully. "Mamma, you're going to have to do something for me. I don't see myself being released from this place anytime soon, so I'm going to need you to pick up a few things for me. I can work here out of this room; all I need is my laptop, PDA and a few papers. There are things that I need to keep current with…"

His mother frowned again, suddenly and with clear disapproval. "You should not think of such things right now. They tell me you were nearly dead when the ambulance arrived. _Work_ should be the last thing on our mind right now. Even Steven has told me that you should take all the time you need to recover. He is going to order all of the finances for his 'Handsome Stranger' brand to be transferred to a new accounting firm. By the time you recover, everything should be new and hopefully easier."

"That makes sense," nodded Paul with approval. "He should have the new people conduct a complete, comprehensive audit on the books… I think that they will find some interesting things in those numbers. That's why I need my stuff, so I can leave him a few notes and help coordinate the transition…"

"_Again_ with the work!" his mother admonished him. "Do your Mamma a favor and relax a bit."

"It doesn't look like I have much of a choice." The pillow beneath his head felt artificial and not at all comfortable, but Paul allowed his head to sink farther into it nonetheless. "Where is Robert at?" he asked, as his mother used a soft cloth to dab moisture from his forehead.

"He drove to Bakersfield yesterday afternoon to interview another one of those amateur bands that Steven has considered using as an opening act," Mrs. Scaribelli told him, subconsciously using the conversation to take her mind off of darker things… about what had _almost_ happened. Paul smiled warmly, because distracting her from his condition had been his own objective from the moment that he first began to talk to her. She had calmed down noticeably in the past few minutes, and a part of him wistfully regretted his impulsiveness in confronting Michael Van Portman. His subsequent injury and hospitalization had obviously put her through quite a lot emotionally.

"Why don't you let the officers in here while there is still time to do so," continued Paul, suppressing the sudden urge to cough. His eyes were fixed on a large clock affixed to the opposite wall. "The Doctor is going to order the room cleared soon, and I want to make sure they have the information they need."

His mother nodded grimly, accepting the situation and swiftly walked out into the corridor behind the room's sturdy, partially open door. She was gone for nearly five minutes, but when she returned both Lieutenant Columbo and Captain Stottlemeyer accompanied her into the room. Columbo looked terrible, his hair all mussed and his eyes bleary, as though he hadn't slept all night. Stottlemeyer, on the other hand, was dressed in dark brown dress slacks with a shirt and tie. The concern on both men's faces was clearly evident, and it made Paul feel a lot better knowing that officers of the law were now firmly on his side and backing him. _Why did I do this alone? _He thought belatedly and somewhat frantically.

"I guess I could have handled that confrontation with Van Portman a little better," Scaribelli ventured tentatively, doing his best to smile wryly at the officers.

"That's for certain," confirmed Stottlemeyer, his deep throaty voice booming in the confines of the small room. "You confronted a murder suspect without police backup." He reached up with the fingers of his right hand and smoothed his thick mustache. "Where I come from, that's _never_ a good idea."

Paul remained silent for a moment before continuing. "Where is Mr. Monk? Is he okay?"

"He's fine," stated Columbo, stepping forward and running a hand along the edge of Scaribelli's bed. "We're keeping him out in the waiting room just in case, because the sight of you bleeding to death rattled him terribly. When you're feeling a little better in a few days, we'll let him stop by and see you."

Scaribelli frowned. "But he's okay, _right?_" he prodded firmly.

"Yes he's fine," Stottlemeyer nodded. "Like the rest of us, he had a little bit of trouble sleeping last night. Most of it was due to bad dreams. Even living in a big city, it isn't every day you get shot at."

"Please convey to him my sincere thanks," pleaded Scaribelli emphatically, his gaze shifting to Columbo. "And you too Lieutenant… I would be _dead_ if not for you two."

"It's not a perfect world young man, but you're most welcome in any case," said Columbo cautiously. "Now then, we do have a couple of questions to ask you."

"I thought you would." Scaribelli smiled with gradually returning confidence as his mother watched from a position just inside the doorway. "Ask away."

"How many people _knew_ you were on your way to confront Van Portman?" wondered Columbo curiously.

Chuckling hesitantly in response, Scaribelli's smile faded. "Pretty much everybody, I guess."

"What exactly does that mean?" added Stottlemeyer.

Attempting to tuck both hands behind his head, Scaribelli just as quickly abandoned the attempt as the pain in his left side increased to the point where he gasped from the pain. "Look…" he paused and turned his head to the side for a moment, long enough to cough uncontrollably. He didn't realize it yet, but one of his lungs had been repaired during the surgery. "You have to understand… I've been doing my level best to prove that Van Portman was a crook for several years now. He is – _was_ – slick as the proverbial snake. No matter how carefully I tried to audit his work, he somehow managed to hide his transgressions until recently, mostly by keeping most of his documentation at Blue Skies Plaza. Much of their documentation is professionally categorized as confidential to outsiders like me. The Stranger allowed him to run things pretty freely since I'm still learning my trade, so to speak. When I finally realized that I actually had something concrete to confront him with, I was naturally very eager to do exactly that."

"You almost paid the ultimate price for being overly enthusiastic." Columbo held up a finger and shook it slowly from side to side. "That wasn't very wise, Mr. Scaribelli."

Paul shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Normally I would disagree with you," he replied. "However, given what has happened, yeah, I guess you're correct." He sighed, remembering. "After notifying your office that I was on the way, I planned on waiting by the security station until you arrived. Unfortunately…"

"…unfortunately you decided to also phone Van Portman, someone who you suspected might be a killer, and panicked him into thinking you were a threat." Stottlemeyer shook his head with dismay.

"Yeah I did do that," Scaribelli said in response to the Captain, before shifting his attention back to Columbo. "What I meant when I said that I told 'everybody', well…" The accountant trailed off for a moment, smiling ruefully. "I was so elated that I had found evidence against Van Portman that I literally ran through the Stranger's house shouting it out loud, over and over. Everyone who was there – staff, the usual collection of semi-anonymous guests, other visitors – they heard me yelling at the top of my lungs that I finally had evidence to nail Michael Van Portman, that 'SOB financial advisor of ours'." His expression grew quizzical. "_Why_ is that so important? Mom told me that Van Portman is _dead_."

Columbo cleared his throat and exchanged a wary glance with Stottlemeyer. "We believe that whoever killed Van Portman must have done so after learning about your planned confrontation."

Scaribelli frowned noticeably. "Why?"

"Both attacks occurred way too close together to be chance," pointed out Stottlemeyer. "They're linked in some way. We firmly believe that someone else was working with Van Portman, but your former colleague kept his illegal activity so compartmentalized that there is no way to determine specifically who that person is without a whole lot of detective work." He paused, harrumphing loudly. "Someone used an unregistered cell phone to call Van Portman right after he left the parking garage. Whoever called must have been furious upon discovering that he panicked and stabbed you. That person obviously believed Van Portman was growing too violent and taking too many chances. A trail of dead bodies tends to draw a _lot_ of police attention. Our unknown assailant obviously felt that Van Portman's capture would bring us one step closer to him. Since he couldn't undo the attack on you, he acted to protect himself."

"Am I hearing you correctly?" Bernadine Scaribelli stepped forward, her expression shocked. "You think someone at the _house_… _Steven_'s house… may be a _murderer?_"

"It's _way_ too much of a coincidence, ma'am," replied Columbo amiably. "Your son gets stabbed and a short time later the person who did it is also killed – the same _day_, as a matter of fact. I just can't see it any other way in my mind. Someone who heard Mr. Scaribelli's triumphant shouting has been involved in the whole plot, monitoring activity at the house. Whoever it was spotted an opportunity to keep everything – all of the diamonds – for himself. Van Portman's apartment was also searched by an unknown intruder and valuables were taken from it. We're going to need a list of everyone on Handsome Stranger's staff, along with the names, addresses and phone numbers of anyone else who was visiting his home yesterday."

"The staff list is easy," pointed out Paul Scaribelli informatively. "In my desk is a payroll ledger. Past, current, and potential new hires are all listed there. The 'party of the day', on the other hand…"

Columbo turned toward the accountant's mother. "What about the guests at the house? Do you keep track of who comes and goes? Surely your security detail must have some kind of record…"

"_That_ list will be harder to prepare, but not impossible," decided Mrs. Scaribelli, pursing her lips as she thought about the problem. "We make sure people show some sort of picture identification and our security people ask them to sign in and out using a paper logbook. But… not everyone does." She shrugged helplessly. "The Stranger picks them up almost anywhere… at concerts, the mall, tourist traps…"

"Maybe your list won't be perfect," continued Columbo confidently. "However, the people who _did_ take the time to sign in will remember who _else_ was there. All we have to do is question everyone properly. It's only a matter of time." He folded both arms in front of him with the wry, confident smile of a detective on the trail of something growing more and more interesting. "Normally, I would be worried about the time involved," he said with a dry chuckle. "People tend to forget more and more as time passes." He glanced appreciably toward Stottlemeyer. "Fortunately, I have extra officers involved on this case."

"Yeah," groaned the Captain while rubbing his fatigued eyes. "I take it we're done interviewing jewelers. Now we get to try and pry information out of a bunch of groupies."

"I'll tell you what," suggested Columbo amiably. "_My_ team will handle the groupies. You and Chief Disher can interview the staff back at Handsome Stranger's house. That way, you'll still have a bit of a working vacation and a chance to catch a nap later this afternoon."

"Thank you," nodded Stottlemeyer appreciably. "Julie will be thrilled that she gets to go back there."

The pair continued interviewing Paul Scaribelli and his mother for another half hour or so after asking for and receiving permission for additional time from the Doctor. Dr. Michaelson studied Paul's chart for a few minutes and Scaribelli himself, carefully observing him to make certain that he was indeed feeling up to the task. Then he left the room with a cautionary note that his patient needed rest. Thirty minutes later, Columbo was running out of questions and preparing to leave Scaribelli in peace.

They were unexpectedly interrupted, however, by the abrupt appearance of Robert Scaribelli. He burst into the room literally gasping for breath, having run much of the way from the parking lot. A nurse followed close behind him, protesting vehemently, until Mrs. Scaribelli informed her that Robert was family. "I drove back as fast as I could," the elder brother stated between deep breaths, his dark eyes filled with concern and finally settling firmly on his brother. "Are you all right Paul?"

"I've been better," replied Paul wryly, smiling reassuringly at his brother. "They stitched me up pretty well, both internally and externally. In time, I'm going to be fit as a fiddle again."

"What a _relief_," sighed Robert with relief. He shot a glance toward his mother. "My God! I tried to call en route, but there was no answer…"

"The Doctors and nurses in this place – they _took_ our cell phones," protested Mrs. Scaribelli. "I am just glad that you are here, Robert." She hugged him firmly and in return he held her protectively.

"I think it's time for us to leave," chuckled Columbo, pointing a finger at Paul Scaribelli. "Don't forget the Doctor wants you to rest!"

Paul laughed in response. "That will be easy now, Lieutenant," he promised. "The Doctors and nurses brought me through the worst of it, and my family is here."

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday morning, 9:14 a.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Julie Teeger returned from the hospital's row of vending machines to find Adrian Monk still seated in the waiting room nearest Paul Scaribelli's room. She was carrying several sweet rolls wrapped in plastic, a cup of hot coffee for Mr. Monk and an orange juice that she planned to drink. Her mom's boss sat frowning, surrounded by a series of photographs and looking much the same as he had right before she left. "Here you go, Mr. Monk," she told him with her usual sweet smile, setting the coffee cup down on the table in front of him. Carefully she placed it between a pair of photographs, making certain not to damage either of them. "The cafeteria is all the way down on the first floor, so we'll have to make do with this stuff."<p>

"I'm not hungry," stated Monk blandly, his mood obviously more than a little distracted. He was holding two photographs side by side, one in each hand, examining them carefully. His eyes flicked back and forth between them. "There's something I'm missing here," he growled with frustration, shaking his head darkly. "And I just can't put my finger on it." He scratched his head, clearly puzzled.

Julie had been watching him ever since Captain Stottlemeyer and Lt. Columbo left them behind so that they could pose their many questions to Paul Scaribelli. She carefully peeled the transparent plastic wrap from around one of the sweet rolls and tasted it tentatively, then nodded and took a larger bite. "These are still fresh," she said to Monk. "You'd better eat something now… we might not get another chance before lunch. If work dictates our schedule again, it might be a late one."

"I'm fine thanks," said Monk, head down, still not looking up from the images he was studying. "There's something _here_," he repeated softly to himself. "I just can't put my finger on it."

Picking up one of the plain brown envelopes that Columbo kept his photographs in, Julie noticed that it was empty. She used a napkin to clean white, sweet frosting from her fingertips. All of the photographs that it had contained were carefully laid out on a small, rectangular maple coffee table in front of Monk, most of them covering the waiting room's heavily used, wrinkled sports and cooking magazines. There was also a "Reader's Digest" lying nearby, still open and in an upside down position right where Julie had left it earlier. "Where's my mom?" she asked curiously.

"What?" Monk glanced up at her curiously, as though seeing her for the first time. He blinked weariness out of his strained eyes and then nodded in recognition. "Oh…" he continued, watching her chewing one of the sweet rolls from the vending machine. "Natalie went into one of the unused rooms to have a private conversation with Dr. Bell. I'm missing something important in these photographs, so I called his San Francisco office and spoke with him. After talking with me for twenty minutes, he wanted to hear Natalie's firsthand perspective on all of this."

"They're _just_ a bunch of photographs of a bald man buying diamonds," shrugged Julie indifferently.

"Not completely," Monk countered. He pointed to three of them lying to his left, and then half a dozen more on his right. "I've isolated these three pictures as being somehow different from the others."

Julie flashed him a perplexed look and leaned in closer to study them. "_Somehow_ different? Usually you point out specifically _what_ is different, most of the time with a simple look at things. Sometimes I think you can literally read other people's minds the way you solve puzzles."

"I realize how that sounds," noted Monk with a hint of frustration evident in his tone of voice. "Normally I just let my mind filter through evidence, and it just picks out the things that seem important, but no matter how hard I try I just can't seem to get my thoughts straight on this one."

"Mr. Monk, what you _went_ through yesterday… witnessing attempted murder and getting shot at. It would have rattled _anyone!_"

"No, don't say that. I am not suffering from some kind of… of post-traumatic stress disorder," decided the detective defiantly. "I'm certain of that because this isn't the first time. Recently I've had similar troubles – over the past month or so – back in San Francisco. Natalie would stop by and visit me and see something blatantly obvious that I missed. For example, one day she noticed a dirty glass that had just been sitting on my countertop for three or four days."

Chuckling, Julie shook her head. "_You_ leaving a dirty glass just setting around? That doesn't seem likely."

"It wasn't intentional or limited to just one item," pointed out Monk. "It was… it _is_ like my mind just selectively deletes certain items from my conscious memory. Eventually I would have noticed the glass, cleaned it and put it away. But not until something unknown clicked back into place within my mind." He put his head in his hands for a moment and sighed. "On another occasion I left the oven on and didn't notice until the temperature in my apartment rose to more than eighty degrees. I discovered the oversight while investigating the reason for the increase in heat, _after_ eliminating the thermostat as a potential cause." He looked at Julie with futility and frustration. "_Why_ would these things keep happening to me?"

"There could be lots of reasons, I guess," speculated Julie, waving a hand casually. She picked up the plastic container of orange juice and peeled away its foil lid. "You're getting older, and since Molly entered your life you've been a lot happier than you used to be." She paused for a moment, mentally reviewing all the things that had changed over the years since she first met Adrian Monk. "Maybe your mind is just shifting gears, returning to a state that is more like the rest of us." Her eyes lit up. "Maybe you'll actually be a _normal_ human being for a change!"

"I certainly hope not," he mused while listening to her speculation thoughtfully. "The problem is now directly affecting my problem solving ability – specifically my attention to detail when it comes to crime scene evidence." His frown grew deeper. "Dr. Bell agreed with you. He also thinks that my problem might be due to a more positive mood. The chemical processes inside a brain can change dramatically over time based on a person's emotional state. There _are_ things that are notably different. For instance, I haven't isolated myself nearly as often as I used to. The Doctor doesn't think I should worry, but as far as my career goes, this kind of thing could turn out to be really _bad_…"

"I don't think so," Julie told him. "In fact, worrying about it will probably make the problem worse. And," she stated firmly, pointing at him for emphasis, "you cannot deny that yesterday was a traumatic experience for you. A man almost _died_ in front of you, Mr. Monk. _That_ would be enough to rattle anyone!" Her gaze drifted to the photographs that Monk had carefully arranged in front of him. "Honestly, I looked those pictures over too, and they're just blurry surveillance snapshots from businesses showing a bald man buying diamonds from different people in a bunch of wholesale and retail outlets. How could three of them be somehow different from the others?"

"I… don't know right now," admitted Monk dejectedly, his fingertips briefly touching the three pictures on his left. "I just know that these three are different in some manner, but can't specifically tell you why." His eyes flicked upward to meet hers and he exhaled with frustration. "_That's_ the problem. _That's_ why Natalie is talking to Dr. Bell."

Sipping at the orange juice, Julie's eyes widened. "Is that even allowed?" she wondered curiously. "Dr. Bell is a _psychiatrist_. Isn't the relationship between the two of you supposed to be strictly _private?_"

"Normally," Monk confirmed, continuing to completely ignore the food and coffee that Julie had set in front of him. "Dr. Bell had to fax a release authorization to the hospital here, and then I had to sign it and fax it back to them. The whole thing seemed ridiculous… as though I would ever sue him for consulting Natalie about what was best for me. That's one of the reasons I pay her!"

"Of course you wouldn't," chuckled Julie. "But there are people who _would_."

Monk shook his head with dismay and chuckled moodily. "There are _plenty_ of other legitimate issues to get upset about where doctors are concerned," he concluded. "For example, what about the long waits we patients have even after taking the time to make an _appointment_? Or how about the receptionist who covers for the Doctor by telling me he's with a patient when I call in during his supposed lunch break?" He harrumphed loudly. "Everyone knows Doctors don't take lunch breaks."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Never mind. I just know." One by one, Monk carefully began replacing Columbo's photos in the brown envelope. He waved casually at the magazines still lined up neatly on the coffee table beneath them. "Or what about… _this?_" he snapped with mild disgust. "These magazines were totally out of sequence when we got here. The sports periodicals were mixed in with the cooking and entertainment magazines. It took me a while, but everything is now arranged alphabetically and by category."

Julie giggled while listening. "_Now_ you're starting to sound like the regular Mr. Monk," she told him, doing her best to stifle additional laughter as she picked up the Reader's Digest. "Why didn't you include this in your arrangement?"

"Because you were _obviously_ still reading it," scoffed Monk. "Besides, there's only one. That Reader's Digest, along with this Rolling Stone over here," he paused long enough to point toward a wrinkled, heavily-used magazine on the right side of the table, "are officially in the 'Miscellaneous' category. It didn't seem right to create a 'Music' category for _one_ out-of-date Rolling Stone, and the Reader's Digest doesn't fit in with 'Entertainment'. It's more of an 'Infotainment' type of periodical. Therefore, the simplest solution was to create a 'Miscellaneous' category."

"Okay Mr. Monk, whatever you say."

Natalie returned then, walking towards them while wearing a medium-length blue skirt and matching blouse. She looked slim and captivatingly beautiful as always. "Dr. Bell thinks you're going to fine Mr. Monk," she told him optimistically, her usual enthusiasm obvious and noticeably irritating him. "He thinks you should take a day or so to recover from your bad experience in the parking ramp and try and get your mind off of the case for a while."

"Well that isn't exactly helpful," growled Monk irritably. "Did he prescribe anything?"

"No," said Natalie reproachfully, shaking her blonde head at him with disbelief. "He's _not_ going to deliberately give you medication to make you more depressed. Not even if it helps you to _solve_ a _crime_."

"Well, what good is he then?" asked Monk tersely. "I've been thinking about switching Doctors again. Perhaps when we get back I'll have you look into that."

"No," Natalie told him firmly. "I won't. You really like Dr. Bell and you're comfortable with him."

"I'm your _boss_," he argued in response.

"And I'm just doing my job," Natalie replied with a brilliant smile. "Deal with it."

They chatted intermittently for a while longer, until Lt. Columbo and Captain Stottlemeyer finished up with their question and answer session. The two finally appeared side by side, with the rain-coated Columbo standing noticeably shorter than the towering Stottlemeyer. "Good news Julie," the Captain said in his rumbling tone. "It looks like we're going back to Handsome Stranger's place. We have to interview everyone who was working in his home yesterday during the time Paul Scaribelli ran out of there." He smiled gruffly at her. "I'm sure you'll be thrilled to get to see him again."

"I'm _already_ going to see him again," stated Julie almost nonchalantly in response, enjoying the rare opportunity to catch Stottlemeyer off guard. She turned her head toward Monk and winked at him, her long, neatly combed hair flying from her right shoulder to her left.

"You… you are?" He looked completely perplexed.

"Yes," Julie informed him while Columbo stood idly by, watching their exchange with obvious amusement. "Mom and I found out that the zoo is low on funding. They lucked out and had a couple of very wealthy individuals make contributions recently or at least some of the exhibits would already have closed. So while we were over at his house, I asked him to do a benefit concert this coming Friday to raise additional funds for all of those poor animals."

"That was very industrious of you young lady," noted Columbo with a sly smile.

"That isn't all," pointed out Julie. Natalie was standing next to her with both arms folded, watching her daughter proudly. "The concert will be Friday evening in honor of the one week anniversary of Devon Petersen's death. Steven is also going to present Laura and Amanda Petersen with a large amount of cash using his share of the proceeds from his last series of L.A. concerts. Since Devon was constantly in and out of trouble and moving from job to job, he didn't exactly have a major life insurance policy in place to protect his family. So Steven absolutely insisted on stepping in and helping out with that too. After all, he feels partly responsible for Laura and her daughter's predicament since it was his finances that directly led to the death of her husband."

One of Stottlemeyer's eyebrows soared. "Steven? _You're_ on a first name basis with this guy?"

Julie flashed him a proud grin. "I am." She held up her pink cell phone. "I even have him on speed dial."

"I would think Van Portman and Frank Lauden had more to do with Devon Petersen's death," ventured Columbo cautiously. "But it's good to hear that he wants to help that poor woman and her daughter." He rubbed his eyes with one hand and then pointed to the brown folder. "Are those my pictures?"

"Yes they are," replied Monk grimly. "I know who the murderer is… _sort_ of."

"Sort of?" The Captain snorted at him without comprehension. "What the devil does _that_ mean Monk?"

"It means his mind isn't entirely back up to speed yet," said Natalie, jumping in before the Captain's infamous temper got the best of him. "He's not kidding, Captain. I just talked to Dr. Bell, and it would seem that Mr. Monk's brain chemistry is changing slightly over time as he ages and his overall mood improves. It takes time for his intellect to adapt to the changes, and the results have noticeably affected his memory. Dr. Bell thinks he'll be fine in the long run, but there are some temporary problems."

"What kind of problems?" Stottlemeyer's tone shifted almost immediately to one of concern. "Your health isn't in danger, I hope."

"No," said Monk softly, handing the envelope full of photos to Columbo. "But I'm having difficulties pinpointing details at the present time." He shrugged his shoulders in frustration. "There's _something_ in the top three pictures that identifies Van Portman's murderer. Somehow I _know_ that, but can't tell you specifically what it is. I know this doesn't make any sense, and trust me… I feel like an idiot."

But Columbo seemed pleased. "You noticed something in _these?_" he asked, seeking confirmation.

"Yes," nodded Monk. "The incident in the parking garage seems to have aggravated a minor condition that I've been putting up with for several months already. I don't know how long it will take for me to think this matter completely through, but I can assure you…"

"Dr. Bell stated that you are to take your mind _off_ of specifics for a while," Natalie piped in suddenly. "He told me that will be the fastest way to recover – by allowing your mind to sort _itself_ out. The more you try to think your way out of it, the more you'll confuse yourself even more."

"Can he still work?" wondered Stottlemeyer.

"Oh sure," Natalie confirmed instantly. "I think we should all go back to Handsome Stranger's house and begin interviewing people just like you suggested. I've known him long enough to be certain that his mind will eventually provide him with the answer. Trust me Captain, Mr. Monk is a _lot_ more resilient than he appears to be at first glance."

Pointing back in the direction of the hospital room, Columbo spoke up. "Robert Scaribelli arrived a few minutes ago, and he is taking charge of the situation here," the Lieutenant informed them. "He called Handsome Stranger's place, and a Mr. Arthur Fuller is on his way to pick you up in one of the limos. A few of my own officers are already on their way there, and they'll assist you with interviews and in tracking down people who are currently off shift. In the meantime, I have to stop back at the office and begin searching for the guests and visitors who were also present during Paul's outburst. So I'll meet up with you later this evening."

"That sounds like a plan," agreed the Captain.

Columbo paused for a moment, studying Adrian Monk thoughtfully. "You found a solution in here… a definite link to the Van Portman killing?"

Monk clenched his teeth together, seething. "I'm _certain_ of it," he snapped in exasperation. "There is something about the top three photos that is different than the other ones. I _know_ that whatever it is identifies the killer. I just can't tell you _why_."

"Okay then." Columbo smiled at his new friends. "I've studied my share of photographs and video footage over the years. We'll take another look at them downtown – my lab folks are pretty good at finding things when we know for certain that there is something to find." His eyes sparkled with confidence. "There are some talented people working with me."

"We'll call you _if_ he remembers anything else," promised Natalie. "I've worked with him for years, and things like a memory loss have a habit of bubbling suddenly to the surface. Mr. Monk has quite a brain."

"I know," said Columbo gratefully. "I'm really glad that I brought you people in on this. There's no telling how many people are involved, or how many more might have died during a prolonged investigation." He watched them stand up, gather their things and leave before opening the envelope. Carefully he removed the top three photos, studying them closely for quite some time. Then he slid out two more of the pictures and also scrutinized them just as intently.

_When he finally figured out what Mr. Monk was talking about, he smiled with triumphant satisfaction and left the hospital_.


	13. Stranger Than Fiction

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Stranger Than Fiction**

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 2:17 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Chief Randy Disher pulled Stottlemeyer's Dodge Charger into the parking lot just inside the main gate on the grounds leading directly to Handsome Stranger's house. He waved affably at the always cheerful Art Fuller, the Stranger's twig thin limousine driver, pausing for just a moment to watch the elderly gentleman busily polishing the hood of the rock star's cherry red Ferrari. Normally his attention would have focused primarily on the clear blue, dotted only occasionally here or there with a puffy white cloud or two. The trees, shrubs and flowers surrounding the large mansion were also meticulously well-kept and impressive. Golden rays of sunshine poured down on the Earth below, keeping the temperature warm but moderate. The unusually nice day and the beauty of the surrounding flora was completely lost on Disher, however, as he stared in awe at Handsome Stranger's home.<p>

_Or_, he thought idly to himself, _should I call it the most amazing house I've ever seen?_

The first two levels were relatively normal looking, if the person watching allowed for their colossal size. After that, the roof of the huge mansion was decorated with a series of astonishing skylights, many showcasing varieties of colored glass or abnormally shaped panes that instantly captured the eye of a spectator and demanded full attention. On the far end of the east wing, a massive, dome-shaped observatory poked skyward, its doors partially open. Poking out of the opening was a very large telescope, a piece of equipment that Disher couldn't even begin to estimate the price of without detailed research. But he harbored few doubts that, like the rest of the home, the telescope itself had probably cost the musician a small fortune.

"Wow, would it be great to get rich and live like this," Disher whistled softly to himself. Then he remembered his own attempts at creating music, the effort involved, and his imagination ran wild with thoughts of endless bus tours, persistent paparazzi and mobs of rabid fans. _There is something to be said for a quiet life of peaceful anonymity_, he decided swiftly.

Columbo's odd-looking, rattle trap car was already sitting idle in the parking lot right next to Natalie's rented Jeep. Its presence hinted immediately to Randy that Captain Stottlemeyer would also be present by now. The Captain had phoned him earlier in the afternoon to let him know that he planned to accompany the Lieutenant back to Handsome Stranger's house, and that he would meet Disher there. Randy had found himself running late after receiving an unexpected phone call, the purpose of which was still foremost in his thoughts. Earlier that morning, his wife had checked in with some rather Earth-shattering news.

Fuller had pointed him in the proper direction, so he headed down the center path as instructed until he reached the concrete sidewalk that passed between two rows of seemingly endless, neatly trimmed shrubbery. It didn't take him long to locate the main entrance… everything about Handsome Stranger's home was larger than normal, ornately designed with its basic function blatantly obvious. He stepped up to the door a bit shyly, feeling somewhat smaller now that he was standing at the base of the first level. To either side, the exterior wall stretched off in both directions. Above, he could see the top of one of the larger skylights towering over him like a sentry on watch. Shaking his head at the massive size of the Stranger's home, he gathered his courage and pressed the doorbell. The light, musical sound of chimes sounding from somewhere inside of the house reminded him vaguely of a song that he knew, but he couldn't quite put his finger on anything specific. Nevertheless, the calming sound settled him down a little bit and eased his frayed nerves.

There was a lengthy pause before a short, elderly woman opened the inner door and then pushed against the outer one. It glided open at her touch as though it were perfectly balanced, parting in the middle. Randy studied the woman curiously, noting her damp, sweaty gray hair and the cleaning rags that she carried. He smiled reassuringly and flipped open his wallet so that she could see his I.D. card and badge. "I'm Chief Randall Disher, looking for Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Columbo or Bernadine Scaribelli," he stated informatively. "They're expecting me."

"Hmph!" growled the maid somewhat irritably. "Another cop, eh?" She shrugged her shoulders and then pointed. "Your friends are out by the pool area. Mrs. Scaribelli is upstairs coordinating the cleaning effort. I can get her if you need to speak with her."

"That won't be necessary," noted Disher in response. "I'm supposed to check in with the Lieutenant."

"Okay… yes," the maid acknowledged with a shake of her head. "I know the man you seek. The strange little man with the raincoat… who is _also_ Italian. He is here. We don't know what to make of him yet."

"You probably never will," Randy chuckled, watching the clearly displeased expression on her face. He allowed her to usher him into the massive foyer and then followed her across its vast expanse to the open doorway leading out into the pool area.

Stottlemeyer was comfortably seated in a lawn chair next to a circular glass table with a large, open umbrella in its center. The bright red and blue umbrella was strategically angled to stave off the heat from the overhead, afternoon sun. "Randy," the Captain exclaimed with enthusiasm as he noticed his old partner appear suddenly. "I was beginning to get worried about you… what's going on? You weren't at the hospital earlier…" He trailed off, one side of his mustache rising with a corresponding eyebrow.

"Sharona is pregnant," Disher stated bluntly, deciding to get right to the point. He himself was still extremely emotional, energized by the news that he had heard earlier that morning.

Natalie was sitting several tables over, visiting with one of the house employees. She snapped immediately to attention upon hearing his surprise announcement. The expression on her face amused and reassured Disher, and he waited patiently as she trotted swiftly across the patio in her short blue skirt and matching blouse to hug him. "Randy, that's _great!_" she declared firmly while Stottlemeyer grabbed and pumped his hand. "A baby for you and Sharona! You'll make a _great_ father!"

"It's… _totally_ unexpected," noted Disher with a wan, slightly embarrassed smile. "So far, her Doctor says she is okay and everything, but she is a little older than your average new mom." He exhaled slowly, pausing. "It worries me a bit, but so far all is well and it's been exciting." He cast them one of his odd, boyish grins. "We decided not to say anything until we were certain our little one was healthy and coming along fine. Her latest checkup was yesterday and everything is fine. Benjy's coming home for a college break in a couple of weeks, and we're going to tell him then."

Natalie studied him suspiciously. "Boy or girl?"

Shaking his head immediately, Disher smiled at her. "Not telling," he emphasized forcefully. "Sharona would _kill_ me if I spilled the beans early. We know, of course, but no one else gets to."

"Well congratulations," thundered Stottlemeyer in his gravely tone, flashing a huge, bearish smile of his own. "In the meantime, however, are you ready to do some work?"

"Of course," nodded Disher. "I'm sorry I got here late, but Sharona _really_ felt like talking…"

"Don't worry about it," Stottlemeyer told him firmly. "You don't need to explain anything, Randy." He handed Disher a sheet of paper with a list of names on it, several of which were already crossed off in pencil. "These are some of the people we're interested in interviewing. All of them are here today and have promised not to leave until we've spoken with them. If you could, please go find the folks we haven't crossed off and have them report to us here, one at a time. I'm interviewing them officially, and then Natalie is helping them complete the necessary paperwork."

"All right." Studying the list of more than a dozen names with interest, Disher's expression appeared surprised. "This is a list of just _some_ of them? How many people work for this guy?"

"You don't want to know," the Captain grumbled irritably. "Most of the house staff will be on the first floor. The only exception is a cleaning crew on the second floor, which is currently being supervised by Mrs. Scaribelli. Grab the employees on the lower level first – based on what we've seen so far, they don't appear to be doing a whole lot."

"Gotcha." Disher turned to leave and then halted in his tracks. "Where is Lt. Columbo? Or Monk, for that matter? Are they here too?"

"Yes they are," replied Stottlemeyer somewhat brusquely. "They're out surveying the grounds."

"Really?" Disher's curiosity got the better of him. "For what?"

The Captain's face reddened slightly and he lowered his voice noticeably to respond. "The Lieutenant and I decided that it would be a good idea to keep Monk away from the household cleaning crew until they finish for the day, if you know what I mean…"

"Oh," nodded Disher, looking momentarily puzzled. "_Oh!_" he exclaimed again, once the meaning behind Stottlemeyer's words fully registered.

"Exactly."

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 3:23 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>The always cheerful, eager-to-please New Jersey police Chief spent the next hour or so doing exactly as instructed, locating household employees and then ushering them, one-by-one, out to the patio area next to the pool. It was an easy job for him, since his personality was naturally outgoing, even if at times somewhat awkward. By the time 3:30 p.m. rolled around, he had pretty much visited with everyone on the ground floor, making small talk over topics that varied all the way from sports to Handsome Stranger's music to the best products necessary when keeping a kitchen area sparkling clean. The entire affair seemed somewhat odd to him, since he had helped supervise on-site interviews like this one before. Pretty much everyone he had met from Columbo's crack detective team was present, and yet the vast majority of them were just standing around at various pre-positioned intervals throughout the house.<p>

Familiar with the constantly varying methodologies of police work from precinct to precinct, Disher simply ignored the oddities and focused on his own assigned task. The fact that Captain Stottlemeyer was conducting the interviews, with only Natalie to assist him, was also a point of interest or him. Along with Handsome Stranger's employees, most of the police officers appeared to be idle. Even after acknowledging to himself that he had been absent for a while, it was still blatantly obvious that decisions had been made since his last debriefing. He had come directly to the house without first checking in downtown at Columbo's office, so something major must have happened during his time off to change the course of the investigation.

Naturally curious, Disher kept a wary eye on Columbo's people as he chatted with the various household employees, gradually redirecting those who had not yet been interviewed to the patio. The presence of so many police officers, each carefully positioned throughout the massive home, was also having a noticeable effect on Handsome Stranger's household staff. Aside from conversing briefly with Randy when he chose to approach them, the vast majority of them remained almost entirely focused on what they were doing. Even in the kitchen, where multiple people were working, everyone seemed to keep his or her eyes focused on the food and kitchen equipment in front of them, speaking in soft tones only when necessary. _The Lieutenant is deliberately putting all kinds of pressure on these people_, thought Disher silently to himself. _He must be hoping that somebody will make a mistake_.

Over the next thirty minutes, very little happened to change the relative quiet of the mansion's interior. Finally, several members of the housekeeping staff slowly descended a spiraling flight of stairs that linked the upstairs bedroom area to the lower level. There were two elderly, gray-haired ladies, and each carried a large white laundry bag stuffed with sheets, pillow cases and other materials that were obviously headed for the washing machine. Randy watched them idly while talking to one of the kitchen staff, and hardly noticed them until a third woman arrived at the base of the staircase. He didn't immediately recognize her, but the oddity of her facial expression instantly aroused his cop instincts. The Chief raised an eyebrow in surprise when she abruptly turned in the opposite direction and headed for the rear of the house. Her lips were thin and pressed tight, her face inadvertently displaying grave concern.

The man he was currently speaking with was still incessantly bragging about the greatness of good Italian cooking when Disher abruptly held up a hand to silence him. "Please excuse me for a moment. I will be _right_ back!" he promised, dodging unexpectedly around the startled chef and angling toward the corridor that the third housekeeper had chosen. He followed her deeper into the mansion, past a huge dining room on one side and an even larger banquet hall on the other, all the way to the rear door. It too was huge, intentionally constructed larger in size so that furniture, food deliveries and other large objects could be moved into and out of the home from either the east or the west. Through the door, Randy could see the housekeeper headed directly for a row of dumpsters sitting next to a gravel-covered frontage road.

"Ma'am!" Disher shouted suddenly, waving as he accelerated his pace. The woman glanced back at him once, a look of fear now permeating her features. "Ma'am, _please_ wait up a moment," he insisted, breaking into a full run. She opened the left door at the rear entrance and hurried through with Disher following close behind. It immediately became obvious that she was not going to make it to the garbage cans before he caught up to her, and that nothing more could be achieved even if she did. Concerned but surprisingly poised considering the awkwardness of the situation, she turned to face him.

Her laundry bag was not nearly as full as the bags carried by the other two housekeepers, but it was the white towel hanging out of it – the one covered with dark, rust-colored stains – that immediately captured Disher's attention. "Is there a reason you are planning to throw away dirty laundry?" he asked casually, deciding to begin with simple questions and expand his interrogation based on her reactions.

"When items are soiled beyond a certain point, Steven likes them tossed," the woman replied brusquely, her manner entirely professional. "As you can see, these particular items have stains that have long since dried and will never come out."

"Stains are one thing, but that looks like _blood_," Disher noted wryly, grabbing the end of the towel hanging out of the bag. He pulled the entire piece of fabric free and studied it further. "In fact, I'm almost certain that it's blood." Suspicion roared through him like a wildfire in a dry forest. "What else have you got in there?" The woman hesitated for a moment, uncertain of what to do, and Randy took the opportunity to remove his wallet and flash his star-shaped, gold badge at her. "There are a lot of cops here today," he informed her. "We can have a search warrant in no time with probable cause. Cooperate and things will go much better for you, I promise."

Reluctantly the housekeeper handed Disher the laundry bag. He noted immediately that it was mostly empty, but when he swung the bag around toward the sidewalk it was obvious that something heavy was concealed at the bottom. The woman continued to purse her lips tightly, eyes roving back and forth, as Randy removed additional towels stained with what appeared to be dried blood. There was also a small, rust stained, silver cloth carpet that looked remarkably like an expensive floor mat from a vehicle. Still, something just as heavy remained at the bottom of the bag as it swung back and forth. His curiosity by now fully piqued, Disher eased the bottom of the bag upward just enough to allow gravity to dump out the remaining item. Both of his eyebrows soared this time as a .38 revolver dropped onto the sidewalk in front of him. For a moment, he wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. _You've got to be freaking kidding me!_ His mind screamed.

"Please… _please_… you _must_ help me," the woman begged suddenly, wiping at her wrinkled eyes with the back of one hand. Then she grabbed Disher's left arm for support. Real tears were flowing down her face. "_Someone_ is trying to frame _Steven_. You must help me figure out _who_ it is!"

Her words only partially registered at first. Disher was still getting over the sight of all the stains on the towels and car mat – someone had undoubtedly lost a great deal of blood in order to create them. Then his gaze focused almost entirely on the handgun for a moment and he shook his head with growing doubt. "I need to know your name ma'am," he told her firmly. "And then I want you to come with me."

"We already know who she is, Chief Disher," said a familiar voice unexpectedly from behind him. Randy whirled in time to notice that Lieutenant Columbo and Adrian Monk had appeared suddenly from somewhere nearby. "Allow me to introduce you to Handsome Stranger's head housekeeper," the Lieutenant informed him. "Her name is Mrs. Bernadine Scaribelli."

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 4:35 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>"When will all of this end?" asked Bernadine Scaribelli, slightly more than an hour later. "I already told everything that I know to the Lieutenant." She had been driven downtown to Columbo's precinct office and was seated at a large, brown rectangular table in one of the interrogation rooms, directly across from Leland Stottlemeyer. The Captain felt a great deal of sympathy for her, for obvious reasons. First her son was attacked and almost killed by Michael Van Portman, followed almost immediately by the incident with Randy Disher. The New Jersey Police Chief had caught her red-handed with a bag of evidence, and Lt. Columbo's forensics team had already confirmed that the dried blood on the towels and car mat did indeed match Van Portman's type. The Captain had served on the police force for many years now, and he simply shook his head. All that remained was for ballistics to match the weapon with the gun used in the accountant's murder, and the Scaribelli family would have even more trouble on their hands. No matter how you sliced it, the incident with Disher spelled only more trouble for the family.<p>

"You just stay seated right there for now and _don't_ worry about this matter, Mrs. Scaribelli," stated a tall, spindly gentleman seated next to her. "Handsome Stranger retains me on his attorney staff because I am the very best at what I do, and we're going to make certain that _nothing_ happens to you."

Stottlemeyer didn't know the man's first name, but he had overheard the last name of Daniels before entering the interrogation room. Studying Mrs. Scaribelli closely, he noticed that her hands were shaking. Rising from his own chair, he walked over to the door and opened it, catching the attention of a uniformed officer standing just outside. "Would one of you guys go and get this nice lady a bottle of water and something to eat?" he inquired. "A pot of hot coffee might do nicely too…. She's been through an awful lot." The officer nodded politely in response and headed instantly off down the corridor in search of vending machines.

"You are very kind Captain," acknowledged Mrs. Scaribelli gracefully. Although her cheeks were wet from tears, her poise under extreme duress remained impressive. "I keep running things through my head, and can't quite figure out what went wrong." She cast an intense gaze into Stottlemeyer's eyes. "Someone is trying to _frame_ Steven to deflect blame from himself, and _you_ have to figure out _who_ that person is."

Daniels coughed once, placing a firm hand on her left arm. "It would be better for you if you didn't say too much at this point," he stated in a cautioning tone, his own eyes drifting toward the mirrored glass on the upper half of the wall behind Stottlemeyer. "We're not alone in here… there are other officers watching on the other side of that mirror."

"Someone is trying to _frame_ Steven, I tell you," she repeated stubbornly. "I won't allow it."

"You are a very loyal employee," Daniels noted with obvious appreciation.

"Steven is a part of my family, just like my two sons," declared Mrs. Scaribelli insistently. "After my husband died, I struggled for many years to raise two young boys on my own. Steven took us all in, fifteen years ago. Robert was old enough to look after himself, but it was Steven who helped me put Paul through college. I don't know what we would have done without him." She smiled tersely at the Captain. "Your country of America creates some wonderful people."

"Yes it does," agreed Stottlemeyer.

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 4:38 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Both Lt. Columbo and Adrian Monk were standing on the other side of the observation window, watching the three people in the interrogation room. It was perfectly clear to Monk that Mrs. Scaribelli was extremely on edge and her emotions severely impacted by the events of the past 24 hours. "I still can't <em>believe<em> that _she_ would kill Van Portman," he said gruffly, unable to believe what he had seen with his own eyes. "Even if she heard on the news that her son had been stabbed, she's just not the _type_ to shift her emotions directly toward an angry revenge killing."

Columbo was standing next to him, holding the flaps of his infamous raincoat tightly with both hands. "In point of fact, she _didn't_ kill Michael Van Portman," the Lieutenant stated very matter-of-factly, watching the astonished reaction on Monk's face. He smiled, clearly amused by the former detective's expression. "You really _don't_ fully know yet, do you?" he asked.

"Know what?" Monk was genuinely perplexed.

"_You_ sir, are the man who figured out just _who_ did kill Michael Van Portman, all by yourself," Columbo told him with an amused chuckle. "But your brain is playing a few tricks on you, for the moment, so you haven't realized it yet." He grinned and folded his arms confidently in front of him. "But you will."

"You're kidding, right? _I_ figured it out?" Monk scratched his head and frowned deeply for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. "The pictures?"

"_The_ pictures," repeated the Lieutenant softly with a firm nod. "All I had to do was fill in a few missing pieces and confirm your suspicions regarding our real suspect."

Monk was still confused, and it showed on his face. "But I never _named_ a suspect. All I said was that there was something odd about a few of your photographs."

"I have them with me," noted Columbo.

Someone knocked on the small observation room's only door, so the Lieutenant walked over and opened it. Monk continued to stare through the two-way glass, watching Captain Stottlemeyer, Bernadine Scaribelli and the lawyer fellow. An officer had entered their room just long enough to set a coffee pot, pitcher of water, white foam cups and a box of donuts on the table. Mrs. Scaribelli chose a pastry and then tentatively nibbled at it nervously, her eyes still flashing from the intense wave of anger fueling her defiantly rebellious spirit.

Glancing to his left, Monk could see that the Lieutenant was speaking softly with Sergeant Burke. The exchange lasted several moments, then ended abruptly as Robert Scaribelli suddenly pushed his way past the Sergeant and aggressively entered the room. "What in the _world_ is going on, Lieutenant Columbo?" he demanded heatedly, interrupting the ongoing conversation between the two men. "_Why_ is my mother being held on suspicion of murder? I just came from the Stranger's house, so I can tell you that things are _completely_ out of control over there! There are news teams outside the gates, and I'm told my _mother _is going to be on the evening news tonight, portrayed as a murder suspect, thanks to you." He rubbed his light, sandy-brown hair absent-mindedly, but his eyes blazed with anger.

"No Mr. Scaribelli, your mother will not be on the news tonight," Columbo promised, waving off Burke and closing the door. He walked over to stand next to the well-dressed Robert Scaribelli. Handsome Stranger's general manager was wearing an expensive navy blue suit with a matching silk tie – he looked extremely fashionable and well groomed. Quite obviously his normal work day had been interrupted by the news of his mother's actions and he hadn't taken the time to change into more casual attire. The Lieutenant studied the concern on Robert's face with interest, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully with the fingers of his left hand as he did so.

"She's not?" Scaribelli appeared suddenly confused. "I was informed by officers who arrived at the house just after I did that they were executing a search warrant. They wouldn't tell me anything, and ordered me to issue a statement on the matter, despite the fact that I knew very little. Once they were done, several members of the housekeeping staff informed me that you had arrested my mother on suspicion of killing Michael Van Portman after catching her with evidence from his murder."

"We brought Mrs. Scaribelli in as a person of _interest_," emphasized Columbo while Monk stood silently in the background, observing both of them. "She found a .38 hand gun wrapped in blood-stained towels lying on a car mat in one of Handsome Stranger's upstairs bedrooms, then tried to dispose of that evidence in one of the dumpsters out back. So naturally we wanted to question her."

"Why would she do that?"

Columbo shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Mr. Scaribelli. What she _should_ have done was call the police immediately. What she ended up doing can only be interpreted as an attempt to dispose of the evidence. That tends to make people like me suspicious. I truly don't believe your mother is a killer, but I had to bring her in for a question and answer session in order to cover all bases. My supervisor gets _very_ upset if I leave gaps in my report on these types of things."

Scaribelli cast a sympathetic gaze through the glass, observing his obviously distraught mother still sitting next to Daniels the attorney. Stottlemeyer had reseated himself across from them, but they couldn't see his face since his back was facing the glass. It didn't appear as though they were saying much of anything. "Do I have to _ask_ for an explanation?" Robert wondered, his tone growing more than a little heated. "She's not a suspect but you arrested her and brought her down here? What the devil is going on?"

"The officers who arrived at the house, just after you did, are there to execute a search warrant," replied Columbo informatively. "It looks to me as though someone in that house is trying to frame Handsome Stranger, as your mother has claimed. If he becomes a suspect, the extra media attention alone would cause a huge disruption to our ongoing investigation." He smiled reassuringly. "But I don't believe you should worry. It is extremely doubtful that your mother, in her panicked state, found _all_ of the planted evidence. I sent a team there to search the entire house, but particularly they will concentrate on the room where she found the gun and the bloody towels." He waved his hands casually. "If they find additional items related to the killing, then I am reasonably certain we will be able to clear your mother of any suspicion."

"Why? _How?_" Scaribelli was extremely confused by Columbo's words. He was pacing back and forth, genuine concern for his mother's welfare apparent just by his troubled expression.

Monk had been content to listen up until that point, but he stiffened noticeably and his face suddenly lit up. "My God," he exclaimed in complete astonishment. He stared intently, directly at Robert Scaribelli. "_He's_ the guy… he _is_ the guy who killed Michael Van Portman!"

"I knew your reliable mind would finally make the connection!" said Columbo triumphantly. "You just needed to see him again with your own two eyes, Mr. Monk."

Scaribelli's troubled expression turned suddenly to one of fear. "What the _hell_ do you mean by that?" He turned on Monk with a scornful stare. "I didn't kill anyone. What kind of _game_ are you two playing?"

"Unfortunately for you Mr. Scaribelli," said Columbo softly, "this isn't a game."

"It sure sounds like one." Robert Scaribelli pointed at his mother's image behind the glass. "Are you going to use her to try and intimidate a confession out of me? I should warn you, the Stranger has a _team_ of attorneys on retainer at any given time for obvious reasons, so your wild accusations are not going to amount to anything significant. He takes care of his people… _all_ of us."

"I seriously doubt he will condone murder, _or_ your involvement in Van Portman's years of thievery from local celebrities," responded Columbo, his normally cheerful tone of voice replaced instantly by one that was much more accusatory. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Scaribelli." He waved a hand toward the room's door. "Your mother has had a _really_ tough day. Why don't we go into the other room and send her home, so she can get some rest? We won't trouble her with any allegations against you _until_ we have offered you an opportunity to refute them. Once she's on her way home, you and all the rest of us can sit down and have a conversation. I'll answer any questions you might have, as long as you agree to answer all of _mine_."

"Only if Daniels stays," snapped Scaribelli in response. "I want a _lawyer_… I want everything that you and…" He pointed an angry, stabbing finger at Monk, "_this_ person… accuse me of, on the official record."

"So do I, Mr. Scaribelli," agreed Columbo ominously. "So do I."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> We're ALMOST there! I apologize for the ongoing delays, but real life issues including the holidays, along with my DETERMINATION, to get the details of this story right, have taken up much of my time. I've done a lot of thinking, and am satisfied with the results. There will be 2 more chapters. One that concludes the cliffhanger of this one, and then a feel good, "happily ever after" finale that answers any remaining mysteries. And I'm thinking there will be a few! Thanks for sticking with me and reading!_

_SoT_


	14. Envy, Greed And The Criminal Mind

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**Envy, Greed And The Criminal Mind**

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 4:51 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Robert Scaribelli's mouth was a tight, thin line of anxiety as he stared across the interrogation room's table at Columbo. Leaning back in the chair his mother had occupied only minutes before, he nervously pinched the top of his nose before wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead. Glancing first to Daniels the attorney and then back again at the Lieutenant, he shook his head angrily. "How can you <em>possibly<em> believe that I would in _any_ way be involved in a _murder?_" he demanded to know, obviously exasperated. He dropped his face into the palm of his left hand, frustrated and nervous. "If I understand you correctly, the recent killings are linked to a dispute over embezzled money?" Gesturing toward the room's only exit, he glared with disgust at Columbo. "I make _six_ figures working for Handsome Stranger," he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "And there is a BMW out in your parking lot registered in _my_ name. Do you really think I need _money?_"

"No sir, I do not think that you _need_ more money, but I believe that you _want_ more of it," replied the Lieutenant somewhat less than tactfully. He reached for the pitcher of ice water still setting on the table top and poured a glass for Scaribelli. Handsome Stranger's general manager held up a hand and waved away the offer. Columbo studied the other man's rugged, middle-aged expression carefully. "I think your primary motive for killing Van Portman was revenge."

Scaribelli leaned forward, eyes wide and blazing fiercely. "_What?_"

"After," suggested Columbo. "_After_ you heard about his attack on your brother. It all begins with the zoo killing, where it was blatantly obvious even to us that whoever killed Devon Petersen was swiftly becoming a bit of a loose cannon." He pointed at the elder Scaribelli brother. "It must have concerned you greatly, yesterday morning, when your brother announced to everyone at Handsome Stranger's residence that he was going downtown to confront Van Portman. After all, you were scheduled to drive up to Bakersfield and audition a band…" he paused long enough to dig around in his raincoat until he came up with a wrinkled scrap of paper. "The, uhm, 'Spiced Rice', unless I'm mistaken."

"_Cinnamon_ Spiced Rice," snapped Scaribelli tersely. "I auditioned them, signed them for a concert that will take place in a couple of months, and then drove back. I heard about my brother on the news… on the car radio." He shrugged his shoulders. "I admit to speeding a little, but was almost home anyway. If I had heard about Paul sooner, I would have canceled everything and come back immediately."

Monk was sitting across from Scaribelli's attorney, next to Columbo. He scrutinized the Lieutenant curiously, already intrigued by his indirect approach to the situation. Even throughout his time as a former detective, Captain Stottlemeyer had included him as an observer during quite a few interrogations. Over the years, Monk had come to know Stottlemeyer as more of a 'get to the point' kind of guy. Columbo – by comparison – was clearly content to take the slower path toward his ultimate objective and thereby give his subject plenty of time in which to stew. The style was clearly well practiced and the pressure it produced was having a noticeable effect on Robert Scaribelli. He was visibly unsettled.

"Oh, I know much of what you're telling me is true," nodded Columbo by way of reply, taking a sip from the glass that Scaribelli had rejected. "You see, earlier today I phoned this band that you auditioned. I spoke with the lead singer, a very nice young woman. Her name is… her name was…"

"_Cynthia_."

"Yes, correct sir. Cynthia Rogers, I believe." The Lieutenant nodded in agreement and continued to study his wrinkled piece of paper. "You stated that you auditioned the band. Well, according to… _Cynthia_, what took place yesterday morning turned out to be one of the shortest auditions in the history of music." He leaned forward and smiled. "You should have _heard_ this woman on the phone, sir. She was ecstatic… claiming that you listened to a song and a half and decided to book them on the spot. She was completely astonished at how quickly you hired them, since her drummer never did get around to making the sample CD they had promised you.

"It's very easy for me, a trained general manger, to recognize talent, Lieutenant."

Columbo ignored the response and continued following his own train of thought. 'We barely started playing, and he just up and offered us the job,' Ms. Rogers told me. The entire band has been celebrating virtually non-stop ever since." He studied Scaribelli's reaction carefully. "Cynthia was, however not too excited to notice that you seemed upset over something the entire time. You left minutes after completing the necessary paperwork to book them, but in an _extreme_ hurry."

Daniels cleared his throat unexpectedly. "Perhaps… _perhaps_ we should take a break," he suggested politely. "My client has been running around for almost a day with no sleep with his schedule completely disrupted. I would appreciate an opportunity to debrief Mr. Scaribelli before continuing."

The pause before Columbo responded was a lengthy one. "You may of course, do that, Mr. Daniels," he said finally. "However, you should know that I have evidence indicating that Mr. Scaribelli has been obstructing a police investigation for quite some time now, simply by not stepping forward with all that he knows. We have also acquired additional details that I believe will lead to a conviction in regards to the death of Michael Van Portman yesterday evening."

"How can you have evidence against _me?_" wondered Scaribelli irritably. "Your officers were only beginning to execute their search warrant when I left the house to come here. How could they have _possibly_ found anything substantive…?"

Columbo smiled politely at the attorney. "Mr. Daniels, I need a statement from Mr. Scaribelli in order to clear up a few discrepancies regarding statements he has made to us in the past. However, the most important item on my agenda is that he has no alibi during the time Van Portman was murdered. He was, I am told, at Cynthia Roger's home for less than sixty minutes."

Scaribelli harrumphed loudly. "So I have no alibi!" he chuckled darkly. "If I had actually _killed_ someone, don't you think I would have made certain that I _had_ one?"

"That is a valid point Mr. Scaribelli, I will grant you that," agreed Columbo. "Lots of people, who have a motive for a crime but no alibi will often turn out to be completely innocent. It happens all the time." He paused and smiled wryly. "But not, I'm afraid, in this particular case. Not when this act was a _revenge_ killing for the earlier attack on your brother. The two incidents occurred only hours apart, sir, and that simply _cannot_ be a coincidence."

Exhaling with frustration, Daniels placed a hand on Robert Scaribelli's arm. "I am afraid I must insist…"

"_No!_" shouted Scaribelli, pulling his arm away as though it had been burned. "He has _nothing_… it's all a bluff. His zoo killer is dead and he's going to look bad with his boss if he doesn't give them someone."

Daniels persisted. "If you're innocent, then what would be the harm…"

Scaribelli silenced his attorney with a glare, his temper flaring dramatically before he gradually managed to calm himself. He attempted to smile reassuringly in Daniels' direction and failed. "I have absolutely no problem with making a statement right here and _now_," he declared emphatically. "If you and I confer privately for any length of time, the Lieutenant will accuse you of helping me manufacture a cover story." He turned and glared at Columbo. "You want my statement? _What_ do you need to know?"

Monk's compassionate nature got the better of him. "You should _listen_ to your lawyer," he suggested.

Scaribelli shot another dirty look toward Monk. "You're not even a _real_ cop!" he snapped harshly.

"He may not be officially on the police force any longer, but Mr. Monk _solved_ this case," Columbo told him firmly. "And I'm giving you _one_ chance sir," he said, sharply raising an index finger for emphasis. "You have _one_ more chance to admit your part in all of this. If you don't, it will go badly for you in the courts and hurt your mother. And if you put that nice lady through even more emotional turmoil, _I_ sir am going to be very, _very_ angry." His normally cheerful demeanor had evaporated completely. "_Lie_ to me again Mr. Scaribelli, I _dare_ you sir."

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 4:58 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Captain Leland Stottlemeyer was on the other side of the interrogation room's mirror, watching the interview with interest, when Sergeant Burke ushered Randy Disher into the observation area. "They're really going to arrest Handsome Stranger's general manager?" asked the New Jersey police Chief curiously. "What did he do?"<p>

"Monk and the Lieutenant believe that Robert Scaribelli killed Michael Van Portman," replied Stottlemeyer in his gravely tone of voice. "After hearing their side of the story, I think he did too."

"But I caught Mrs. Scaribelli red-handed with a garbage bag full of evidence…"

Chuckling, Stottlemeyer put an arm around his friend's shoulder. "And it's a good thing that you did, too. We didn't know what time you would be stopping by, so Columbo and Monk were planning to catch her at the dumpster. The Lieutenant knew that someone would try and throw suspicion onto someone else… in fact, he was waiting for it. You can now testify truthfully that you caught her there without knowing anything else beforehand."

"Why is that important?"

Stottlemeyer waved toward the people seated around the table on the other side of the glass. "Watch and listen," he suggested. "We're about to hear everything."

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 5:03 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>The silence in the room for the next ninety seconds or so was deafening. "Okay," nodded Scaribelli, swallowing hard and casting a wary glance at Daniels. He was perspiring noticeably, his expression now dominated almost completely by the anxiety coursing through him. "I won't lie to you. Perhaps there is another part of the truth that needs to be told…" Dropping his head in his hands, he exhaled slowly before glancing back up at Monk. "How did you know?"<p>

Columbo cast an appreciative gaze in Monk's direction. "Tell him, Mr. Monk."

Still stinging somewhat from the 'not even a real cop' comment, Columbo's firm confidence brought Adrian Monk's always vulnerable self-esteem roaring instantly back to normal. "Okay," he began slowly at first and then much more confidently. "Here's what happened. Lieutenant Columbo had most of his people from the L.A.P.D. out canvassing jewelry retail outlets and wholesalers in and around the Blue Skies Plaza business district. Those of us involved have known this search was going on throughout the past weekend. For a while even my friends, Captain Stottlemeyer and Chief Disher, were assisting with the search for a local embezzler whose M.O. has clearly been to convert his stolen cash into diamonds. The diamond purchases were small ones made over a long period of time. Officers investigating these purchases eventually discovered that the buyer was in reality Michael Van Portman in disguise."

The Lieutenant nodded with approval. "The bald man."

Scaribelli raised an eyebrow. "_Bald_… man?"

"Making multiple diamond purchases, even over a lengthy period of time, can be a risky business these days," Monk continued. "With modern surveillance technology involved, along with computerized record keeping, it's much easier to monitor a buyer's history and track suspicious purchases. We discovered make-up kits – one in Van Portman's office and another in his apartment – which he was using to impersonate a bald man with thick glasses whenever he went out to purchase additional gemstones. Surveillance photos from cooperating jewel dealers revealed that this person was a regular customer who shopped in that particular neighborhood for many years. In fact, many of the sales transactions actually occurred too far in the past for us to track. Footage from camera equipment at most of the businesses was not available for any date older than six to twelve months."

"But we did manage to obtain a few dozen photos and video tapes from the more recent transactions," added Columbo. He pulled a brown envelope out of his raincoat and laid it on the table. Opening it carefully, he pulled aside the top three photographs and passed the rest of them over to Robert Scaribelli. "My lab team printed these up for us."

Scaribelli appeared genuinely confused. "Why are you giving these to _me?_" he inquired curiously.

Waving a hand casually in response, Columbo smiled. "Take a look and see why."

Glancing apprehensively toward Daniels, who leaned in closer so that he could also see, Robert Scaribelli removed the photographs from the envelope and began to sift through them, one by one. He studied each of them carefully for a few minutes, during which time the room grew ominously silent. "Well, these are pretty grainy images," noted Scaribelli nervously, feeling more than a little trepidation. "You can certainly tell that it's a bald man with dark glasses, but I don't think that you can conclusively prove that they're photographs of Michael Van Portman. This may or may not be a disguise."

"On that note you are correct Mr. Scaribelli," nodded Columbo. "We cannot prove that those are photographs of Michael Van Portman." He slid the other three photographs smoothly across the wooden table top. "However, we _can_ be reasonably certain that these three are photographs of _you!_"

"_What?_" gasped Scaribelli, clearly astonished. There was another prolonged silence, but as the seconds ticked by he swiftly grew unnerved again. "Where are you going with this, Lieutenant?"

"The man in these three photographs is _you_, wearing a similar bald cap and dark glasses," declared Monk, so confidently that Scaribelli's gaze dropped uncomfortably away from his own. "We figure that Van Portman began to get nervous about so many diamond purchases, even when they were made a few at a time. So he asked someone else to help him with the gradual conversion of money to gemstones."

"Now wait just a minute," snapped Scaribelli irritably, handing one of the three photographs back to Monk. "How can you _prove_ that this in fact _is_ me? I can tell you with certainty…"

"I would remind you one more time… _don't_ lie to us, Mr. Scaribelli," Columbo cautioned him while carefully observing the exchange. He used a much less cheerful, more forceful tone of voice and it visibly rattled the man.

"All you have to do is look closely. You can see the fingers on the hand of the bald man in some of the pictures, but most clearly in these three particular photos," noted Monk, holding up the picture Scaribelli had returned to him. "The ring finger is slightly longer than the middle finger – a rare trait of yours that I pointed out to you when Natalie, Julie and I first visited Handsome Stranger's home the other day." He scratched his head nervously. "When I first saw these, I noticed something was odd about them but didn't catch the specifics at first… my brain has been malfunctioning a little… well, ever since the maids at the hotel took away most of my cleaning products. I knew that something was different about these particular pictures, but I couldn't quite…"

"…put your 'finger' on it?" Scaribelli appeared somewhat relieved, and some of his confidence returned. "That's pretty circumstantial evidence Mr. Monk. This is L.A. after all. I'm sure there are lots of people with my particular condition. Are you telling me that you're going to approach a jury with an accusation of murder based on finger length? That's not exactly removing all reasonable doubt."

"How many people with that particular oddity were at Handsome Stranger's home yesterday morning when your brother announced that he was going to confront Van Portman?" asked Columbo inquisitively. "We checked… you are the _only_ one amongst all the staff and guests we've located. Only your fingers match those in these three photos. And _you_ were one of two people presented with a serious motive for murder." He trailed off for a moment, allowing the impact of his words to register. "Your mother is a nice person, even when angered to the point of emotional collapse over a tragedy like the attack on your brother. I could be wrong, but my instincts tell me she would never be capable of murder. And let me tell you, after forty-two years on the force I've become a pretty good judge of character."

"She would _never_ resort to violence," Scaribelli confirmed vehemently. "I can't believe you arrested her."

"We did it to catch _you_ Mr. Scaribelli…" the Lieutenant pointed at the photograph Monk was still holding. "That picture _proves_ that you knew Van Portman and were cooperating with him in the embezzlement of funds from celebrities – even money taken from your _own_ employer." He shrugged both shoulders indifferently. "I really don't care whether you were conspiring with Van Portman from the beginning or whether you caught him stealing somewhere along the line and began to blackmail him. What matters is that you _are_ involved and you _killed_ Michael Van Portman after hearing about the attack on your brother."

Daniels the attorney cleared his throat and shook his head negatively. "Mr. Scaribelli is correct about evidence, Lieutenant. I sincerely hope you're not planning to base an _entire_ murder investigation on a few _very_ blurry photographs," he stated blandly.

Smiling, Columbo's eyes shifted to Daniels. "No sir, I am not," he replied swiftly. "I suspected that whoever was responsible for the crime would try to divert attention onto someone else, and in the end Mr. Scaribelli proved me right in that regard."

Robert Scaribelli's eyes widened. "The gun and the towels?"

"That's right," acknowledged Columbo professionally. "Your mother found them very early this morning, and she immediately called Natalie. Ms. Teeger then phoned me, and I put my team into action."

"They certainly took their time," countered Scaribelli nervously. "Your search warrant wasn't served until just before I left the house to come down here."

"That was the _second_ search warrant of the day," the Lieutenant pointed out bluntly, causing Scaribelli's face to whiten noticeably. "We went over right away and searched the entire house, especially the area where your mother found the planted evidence. All of my people signed off on their assignments, and then we waited. Oh, we were all over the first level of the house during the rest of the day, talking to staff and interviewing people throughout the morning and much of the afternoon. But _only_ your mother and a couple of other housekeepers went upstairs to do laundry. While she was up there, I requested that she take the incriminating items, place them in a garbage bag and then walk them to the dumpster. I specifically recruited her to help me catch her own son… a murderer."

"You _knew_ my mother was innocent?"

"Yes. She was never really under arrest. If you'll remember, Sergeant Burke was speaking to me when you burst into the observation room earlier. He had just informed me that they found several diamonds lying in the carpet of the same room where the other evidence turned up."

"Well there you have it. My mother is innocent, just like she said."

"_No one_ on the staff except your mother and two housekeepers went upstairs all day," replied Columbo curtly. "And those three people were accompanied by people from my forensics team. The diamonds were found _after_ our first search during the execution of the _second _warrant, which took place _after_ you came home and went upstairs for a half hour or so. My people certified that no gemstones were present in the morning; they used a black light in every room to make certain." He pointed an accusatory finger at Scaribelli. "Only _you_ went upstairs after your mother and the other housekeepers came down, and suddenly we found additional incriminating evidence… diamonds. _You_ planted that additional evidence to prove her innocence and throw suspicion back onto Handsome Stranger."

The expression on Scaribelli's face was that of a beaten man. "Yes, yes I did," he admitted ruefully.

"Robert," cautioned Daniels.

"Forget about it Joe," replied Scaribelli futilely. "Everything they just said is true." He hesitated for a moment, glancing briefly at the attorney before continuing. "Van Portman _was_ trying to establish an alternate identity, but he was terrified that people in the surrounding offices would grow suspicious if they noticed a bald man consistently leaving his office when he wasn't ever there himself. I caught him red-handed one day, and offered to keep his secret in exchange for a percentage. After that, he requested that I put on the same disguise and drop by to visit at least some of the time. That way he could be seen with the bald man and the others working in the building would never suspect him." Pausing for a moment, he harrumphed loudly at the memories. "Eventually I began to wear the disguise more and more often, since I could funnel money out of the office and make most of the diamond purchases while he remained behind and worked to forge the necessary documentation needed to cover our trail."

The Lieutenant nodded with gratitude. "I'm glad you were finally honest with us. Obstruction of an investigation this size tends to consume a lot of taxpayer dollars, especially when you falsely implicate a celebrity. Had you persisted, things would not have gone well for you."

"Yesterday, he actually _called_ me and _asked_ for my help," sneered Scaribelli suddenly and quite heatedly. "After stabbing my _brother_, he called me while I was on my way to audition that band and begged me to help him skip town." He shrugged at the uncomfortable memory. "I arranged to meet him and then shot him dead before he could even get out of his car. And I would do it again, without remorse."

"I'm truly sorry about your brother," replied Columbo. "But he will recover." He stood up abruptly and opened the room's door, admitting a tall, uniformed officer carrying a handful of official documentation.

Scaribelli glanced uncomfortably toward the newcomer. "We need to get my mother completely out of this. Have your people write up the necessary paperwork. I'll sign a confession and then this whole thing will be over with… for you and Mamma, anyway."

"I would appreciate that sir," acknowledged Columbo politely. "We've wasted a lot of manpower over the past few days chasing bald men. If you had come to us with your suspicions right after the zoo murder, you undoubtedly would have implicated yourself, but to a much lesser degree. And that action probably would have averted the attack on your brother."

"I know," Scaribelli noted sourly with obvious regret. "I _know_." He exhaled with clear frustration. "I was in too deep… Van Portman and I had embezzled _too_ much."

Columbo leaned forward, his expression quizzical. "May I ask why you would do such a thing?" he asked inquisitively. "You told us yourself about the large salary and nice car…" He paused for a moment and then prompted the man. "_Why_ sir? Why would you willingly participate in all of this?"

Scaribelli's expression soured instantly into a look of pure, unrestrained malice. "My family does most of the work, Handsome Stranger shows up and sings, and then _he_ keeps most of the money." The general manager's internal, pent up anger was palpable. "_We_ pocket pennies in comparison to his income. He has accumulated more money, just on the residuals coming in from his older albums, than most people could ever hope to earn. Why in the world should _he_ get to keep millions and dish out mere thousands to the rest of us when we work just as hard as he does? It isn't _fair_…"

"_Life_ isn't fair, Mr. Scaribelli," replied the Lieutenant. "Musical ability is _his_ talent."

"Do you know how much _work_ it takes to set up a country-wide tour?" Scaribelli asked acidly. "How about a global tour that passes through _multiple_ foreign countries? _My_ family has given that man everything that he has ever needed to acquire a vast fortune. And in return we get tossed a few _peanuts_."

"You may not like the system, but that's the way it is," pointed out Monk. "What kind of country would we live in if we all started taking from those we envied?" He ignored the heated glare shot back at him.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Columbo shook his head. "Do you know how much _I_ make per year, sir?" he inquired curiously. "What you make in a year sure sounds like a vast fortune to me." He studied Scaribelli with genuine puzzlement. "The one thing that I've never been able to figure out, over the years, is why some people never seem able to be _content_ – to be happy with all that they have." He pointed a finger sharply at Handsome Stranger's general manager. "Only a tiny, tiny fraction of the people on this planet will ever have what you have. Only a select few, even in this country, will make the kind of money that you make. Almost everyone else struggles each and every day simply to save enough for their retirement. And yet, for some reason I cannot possibly fathom, people like you are _never_ satisfied no matter how much you make." He appeared to be genuinely confused. "Mr. Scaribelli, you get to live and work in that _huge_ house…"

"_You_ haven't seen Handsome Stranger's bottom line," Scaribelli seethed. "_I_ have."

"Your employer's net worth makes no difference to me," countered Columbo forcefully. "What matters is that what he does is legal and what you have done is not."

"You don't know anything about me."

"With respect, would you really want to change places with Handsome Stranger?" wondered Columbo suddenly. "You are privileged to live the life of luxury with him, protected by iron gates and a security team, yet _he_ is the one who gives up most of his privacy, signs autographs whenever he is recognized and constantly deals with the non-stop efforts of persistent stalkers and paparazzi. I'm just asking the obvious question, sir: given the choice, would you _really_ want to be him? Or is it better to content yourself with a life in the background, making an excellent living off of his talent while his larger-than-life presence diverts the spotlight away from you?"

"It's… not… _fair_."

"It's not fair that I don't have a nice new car like yours," the Lieutenant snapped back at him. "Is money the most important thing in life? What about the results of your efforts? What about all of the people your work helps to entertain? What about how much more special their lives are because they can listen to the Stranger's music every day or attend his concerts? What ever happened to being part of something better than yourself, about serving your _community?_" He grew silent for a moment to allow the impact of his words to fully sink in. "I've had many job offers over the years where I could have made much more in terms of salary and benefits. But there would have been a price. My wife and I would have had to move, or perhaps the work that I did wouldn't be nearly as satisfying as what I've always loved to do. So I made a choice, sir. I made a deal with life. In return for an income adequate to support my family, I do the job that my supervisor assigns me to do. I don't envy others or concern myself with how much they make."

"That's you, Lieutenant. That's just who you really are."

"It used to be you, too, Mr. Scaribelli," Columbo stated sincerely. "You could have changed jobs. You could have made changes in your life in an honest way. Instead you decided to give in to temptation and steal. And those actions resulted in the death of two men and severe injury to your brother."

"I know," conceded Scaribelli reluctantly. "Paul reacted so quickly I didn't have time to stop him. Van Portman simply lost focus after trusting those two knuckleheads at the zoo with the vast majority of our fortune. He let his emotions get out of control, and my brother fell victim to his bad judgment."

"And now your family has fallen victim to yours," concluded Columbo.

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday afternoon, 5:33 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Bernadine Scaribelli was seated in the precinct lobby office when Adrian Monk and Lt. Columbo finally appeared. She stood up, hastily setting down a white foam cup of tepid black coffee in anticipation of what was to come next. The wrinkles on her face had turned into deep creases, betraying the depth of concern she was feeling. Her gaze settled on Robert, who trailed close behind the Lieutenant with his hands cuffed in front of him and flanked by two uniformed officers. Last to arrive was Joe Daniels, the lawyer and his briefcase, looking as though he had at some point developed a severe case of indigestion. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, Bernadine walked defiantly forward and confronted her son.<p>

"Is it true?" she asked her son intensely, her tone of voice demanding an immediate response from him. "Is what they have told me true? Were you _involved_ in what happened to Paul?"

"I… _I_…" Robert trailed off abruptly, unable to answer his mother immediately. "I have been doing some things that, upon further reflection, seem to have contributed to it."

She slapped him across the face. _Hard_. Angry red stripes left by her fingers temporarily blossomed on Robert Scaribelli's left cheek. "_This_ is how you honor your family… by associating with disreputable characters and getting your brother _stabbed_ to within an inch of his life?" Bernadine scowled angrily at her son. "_This_ is how you thank Steven for all he has done for us?" Her glare remained fixed on him and Robert looked quickly away. "How could you do this to us… to _me?_"

Rubbing fatigue from his eyes, Robert shrugged. "It wasn't supposed to work out this way, Mamma. Hindsight is always 20/20. I screwed up, and I'm likely going to have to pay for it."

The gray-haired, elderly woman turned then, with tears spilling uncontrollably down her face and rushed from the room. The color drained from his face as Robert watched her go, and he simply hung his head and stood silently for a moment. Monk stood waiting in the background, completely unsure of what, if anything, to say. Finally, Columbo waved at the uniformed officers and they escorted Robert Scaribelli out of the lobby and into one of the side offices.

Captain Stottlemeyer and Chief Disher had emerged from their half of the interrogation room and were standing near the check-in desk next to Natalie. For her part, Natalie waited a polite moment or two and then turned toward the rest of them. "I'll be back in a minute," she told them softly. "I just want to make sure that Mrs. Scaribelli is okay… she's going through a lot right now."

Columbo nodded and waved a hand at the men. "Come on fellows," the Lieutenant said amiably. "This case is officially in the can, so let's go and get a celebratory cup of coffee."

Monk's eyes were watching the doorway that Mrs. Scaribelli had just vacated. "She's hurting Lieutenant," he pointed out. "Shouldn't we do something else to help her?"

"I think it would be prudent, for now, to let Ms. Teeger speak with her," Columbo suggested softly. "I say we relax over coffee… my treat. It's the very least I can do for you after all the assistance you provided."

"Then let's go out," emphasized Chief Disher. "Because the stuff you serve here… it _isn't_ coffee!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> We still have one more chapter to go. For example: Where in the world did all those diamonds from the zoo end up? Coming soon, the final Chapter to this story with the answer along with a few surprises!_


	15. There Will Your Heart Be Also

**Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo**

**There Will Your Heart Be Also**

* * *

><p><strong>Matthew, Chapter 6: <strong>_"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and decay destroy, and thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor decay destroys, nor thieves break in and steal. __**For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also**__."_

* * *

><p><em>Friday afternoon, 4:33 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>After waiting for almost twenty minutes while stalled in traffic, Lt. Columbo finally managed to drive his Peugeot through the Los Angeles Zoo's outer security fences. Old Ed Mertz himself was working the gates with two other security officers, and he nodded as Columbo waved his badge through the rolled down window on the driver's side. Mertz jerked a thumb toward the Administrative parking lot on the west side of the security building, prompting the Lieutenant to take him up on the offer. The normal, larger parking lot surrounding the southern entrances was overwhelmed with predatory civilian vehicles, all circling endlessly to find one of the few remaining parking spots. All of them had no doubt been attracted by news of Handsome Stranger's evening benefit concert. Prodded mostly by local advertising on television and radio, word had spread fast.<p>

"Geez, I tell ya, this place is literally _crawling_ with people," the Lieutenant commented as he stepped out of the beat-up, vintage Peugeot. He chomped down on a cigar that was mostly chewed and hadn't yet been smoked, glancing briefly at a zoo employee who was busily using a long-handled scoop and broom to sweep up trash and other loose debris. The young man was wearing dark navy blue slacks, a tan work shirt and a blue knit sweater vest. He looked very trim and professional.

"I heard them talking up in the offices," confessed the young, black-haired zoo employee. He was a tall, slender fellow with a narrow face and he grinned at Columbo with a knowing smile. "They cordoned off the whole southern half of the grounds, and they're worried that it's not going to be enough. The bleachers only hold so many people, and many people have been calling in to ask if they can simply stand nearby and _listen_ to a live concert."

The Lieutenant paused, searching through his rumpled rain coat with deliberate precision until he finally located a brightly colored ticket with a large, black number on one end. "I'm supposed to head to the VIP section," he pointed out, showing the young man his admittance pass. "I don't have any idea where it is, but that's where I'm supposed to go."

The young man laughed at his obvious confusion. "Just head through the security office," he suggested in response. "Go out through the east exit and there should be someone to guide you to the Adventure Theatre… that's where all of the special guests and earliest arrivals will be watching from." He began to sweep some more, then abruptly paused long enough to lean against the wooden handle of his broom and eye the Lieutenant with renewed interest. "Are you a cop?"

"Yeah, a homicide detective. My name is Columbo," replied the Lieutenant, holding out his hand.

"I'm Tanner," the youthful zoo employee replied with a wide grin. "Tanner Williams. Many of us here at the zoo are very grateful for what you've done. There were a lot of very spooked employees around here for a while, ever since that fellow was murdered. Now that you've solved the case, people have relaxed and things are almost back to normal."

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, the Lieutenant removed a gold metal lighter from his right coat pocket and ignited the cigar. He puffed on it lightly, blowing coils of gray smoke into the light evening breeze. "I used to use matches," he commented idly. "And I could never find the danged things. I was always bumming them from someone… but that was before everyone started doing their best to stop smoking!" He shook his head and chuckled. "Forty-something _years_ I've been smoking cigars and the wife _finally_ buys me my own lighter. And then she suddenly changes her mind and tries to get me to _quit!_" He took a few tentative steps in the direction of the security building and then turned back. "It was nice to meet you, Tanner Williams," he said cheerfully.

"No problem. It's nice to know that the police are on the job."

"The press is reporting a little too much success for my taste," he pointed out. "The _major_ players are all dead or in custody, but there are still a lot of roaches attached to them that we need to track down." He smiled wryly at the thought. "They'll try to hide, but all we have to do now is follow the links that connect them. We're going to take a lot more crooks off the streets before we've finished."

"Well, all I know is that things here have basically returned to normal _here_," acknowledged Williams. "Thanks again for that."

"You're welcome, young man."

Checking his watch as he walked, Columbo noticed that he was nearly two hours early. The concert itself wasn't scheduled to begin until 6:30, but he had been advised by his wife to arrive as soon as possible. There was a presentation scheduled before the concert, a brief ceremony where the Stranger would present Devon Petersen's widow with a huge check. Already many of the local citizens had contributed to the benefit fund, but it was Steven Kurnelowski himself who had promised to provide the largest percentage. "I have more money than I could ever hope to spend," the Stranger had explained to Natalie and Julie. "Even after taking into account all of the funds that were embezzled and lost; _I_ can afford this… trust me."

Bernadine Scaribelli's star was skyrocketing also. Though her son remained in custody regarding his links to the murdered Michael Van Portman, she had insisted on stepping forward to fill Robert's shoes. "A benefit concert will not organize itself," was her stern, insistent explanation to those who protested. "The Scaribelli family has much to atone for in order to salvage my husband's good name – Paulie and I intend to work all that much harder, and Robert will serve out whatever sentence he receives."

Concerned about her, Natalie immediately voiced concerns to the Stranger, but he simply waved her off with a friendly wink. As the week had progressed from Wednesday toward Friday, she began noticing all kinds of extra help drifting over to the house and – later to the zoo grounds. It was quite clear that music was not the Stranger's sole talent – he was also capable of pitching in and assisting administratively when the need called for it. Satisfied that Mrs. Scaribelli was in no danger of being overworked during the organization of the impromptu concert, Natalie backed down.

Smiling with amusement at the memories of the past few days, Columbo eased through the security building toward the east exit as instructed, pausing just long enough to steal a foam cup of coffee from Ed Mertz's conference room. He emerged back into the sunny, cloudless day only to discover that the area immediately adjacent to the office was overrun with a growing crowd of people. _This was supposed to be easier on foot_, he reminded himself helplessly while standing safely in the doorway and shaking his head helplessly. He just stood there for a moment or two, puffing on his cigar and sipping coffee, curiously studying the throngs of adults and children pushing their way toward the path branching off east past the children's zoo. The Lieutenant turned suddenly, glancing farther into the crowd, certain that he had heard someone calling his name.

"Lieutenant… Lieutenant _Columbo_," he heard again. "Oh, there you are…" A familiar face popped out of the sea of people moving past as Columbo realized that the voice belonged to Paul MacReynolds. He was the fidgety zoo director whom Columbo had not seen or spoken with at all since their first meeting on the previous Friday morning. MacReynolds was wearing a slick, silver and black pinstriped suit with a matching silk tie. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his balding head as he approached. The man was more than a little heavyset and yet he somehow moved with ease through the throngs of hopeful concert attendees.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. MacReynolds," stated Columbo jauntily.

"I can't _thank_ you enough for solving this case so quickly," MacReynolds stated in response. He moved his head back and forth for a moment, trying to peer through the cloud of cigar smoke obscuring his view.

"I'm hearing that a lot lately. Trust me, my team is used to working quickly," noted the Lieutenant. "And we had some help on this one. But you're most welcome, sir. I always take pride in a job well done."

MacReynolds smiled thinly and waved an accusatory finger at the detective. "There's _still_ no smoking in the park, Lieutenant," he reminded the detective. "No exceptions, not even for you." Smiling pedantically, he plucked the cigar from Columbo's hand and offered it to a nearby, uniformed policeman. The officer accepted it with a wry smile and held it tentatively in the center. What became of it, Columbo never knew. He and MacReynolds swiftly left the officer behind, passing through the crowd as politely as possible. The park surrounding them was full of additional police officers, part of the protective measures added by the L.A.P.D. in anticipation of the Stranger's one-night, outdoor concert.

"Handsome Stranger will be performing in our Adventure Theatre," MacReynolds explained cheerfully. "However, the children's zoo has been cordoned off for you and our other VIP guests. Most of your friends are already here. Believe it or not, I've even met your _wife!_"

"Oh she's really something, that Mrs. Columbo," the Lieutenant noted with a hearty laugh. "That's why I love her… she teamed up with Natalie and Julie Teeger and together they helped Mrs. Scaribelli set all of this up in less than three days. It's just _amazing_ how fast things have come together." He studied the smiling faces comprising the crowd surrounding them with a contented grin, soaking in the overwhelming, jovial atmosphere generated by all of the excited chatter and eagerly running children. Drinking the last of the coffee, he tossed the empty foam cup in a nearby trash bin.

* * *

><p><em>Friday afternoon, 4:45 p.m. PDT<em>

_(Back in San Francisco)_

* * *

><p>Molly Owens sighed with mild frustration at the sound of heavy boxes being moved around in the other room. She was busily pouring liquid from a steaming tea pot into two small, porceline teacups. "Ambrose?" she called out, turning her head and trying to listen. There was a long silence and it was impossible to determine whether or not he heard her calling his name. "Ambrose?" she called again, more forcefully this time. "Can you come in here, please?" She finished filling the cups, and, knowing that the hot liquid inside needed time to cool anyway, she replaced the teapot on the kitchen stove and walked out into the hall leading to the Monk family home's large, adjoining living room.<p>

Ambrose Monk poked his head up from behind a large pile of brown, corrugated cardboard boxes and smiled wanly at her. "I was reorganizing," he informed her, eyes still studying the odd arrangement surrounding him. There were several narrow corridors deliberately left open to walk through, but the vast majority of the entire downstairs area – except for the kitchen – was filled with huge towers of neatly organized boxes, large metal filing cabinets and tall stacks of tightly bound user manuals created for a variety of consumer devices and appliances.

"I still can't believe that you _write_ most of these," commented Molly, clearly impressed. She picked up one of the thicker books and studied it carefully. "Subaru?"

"The designers and their technicians come up with the actual manuals for automobiles," Ambrose pointed out quickly, retrieving the book from her and placing it carefully back on top of a stack of duplicate copies. "But one of their engineers is a pen pal of mine and sends these to me to proof read." He shrugged indifferently. "Apparently, he feels that I do a better job of speaking in layman's terms."

"I'll bet you do," chuckled Molly with amusement. "Our tea is ready. I also brought some cookies."

Ambrose followed her tentatively back into the kitchen and promptly sat down as Molly gestured toward an empty seat. "You didn't have to bring me the groceries," he told her firmly. "The store manager is very familiar with my condition and gives me a healthy discount on delivery charges."

Flashing her brilliant smile, Molly set a freshly brewed cup of tea in front of Ambrose. "Not to worry," she reassured him, seating herself across from him and pushing a plate of chocolate chip cookies in his general direction. "I promised Adrian that I would check in on you while he was visiting Los Angeles."

"Yes." Ambrose stared straight ahead for a moment, deep in thought, before taking a tentative sip from the hot mug of tea. "About that. How much longer is he going to be there?"

Nibbling on a cookie, Molly pondered his question carefully for a moment before responding. "I'm not totally certain," she replied hesitantly. "They helped the L.A.P.D. solve a case and were going to have a little fun before returning to San Francisco. Something about a rock concert at the local zoo… I _think_ it's today." She crinkled her nose, causing Ambrose to glance shyly away from her attractive features. He was particularly drawn to the light sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks, visible through her light make-up.

"Adrian is only capable of having 'a little fun'," he stated bluntly. "So your information is probably correct in this particular case." His gaze drifted back toward her attractive features. "Thank you again for taking the time to deliver my groceries."

"It's not a problem Ambrose," she told him reassuringly, sprinkling in a mix of her gentle laughter. "Really it's not. I don't get to see you very often, and technically you _are_ my step-Uncle."

He didn't smile, but her words clearly warmed his usually cool demeanor. "Adrian and I have always had a great love of family," he offered by way of reply. "Even though we tend to argue a lot when we're together. I guess you could say we have a lot of personal history, especially considering what we went through as children."

"_Lots_ of families have relationship difficulties," she reminded him. "I've had some father issues of my own to deal with. However, as talented as you and your brother are, I sincerely doubt that anyone hashes out their differences in quite the same manner you do." She sipped from her cup and watched a thin smile cross his features. "You should help him in his work – he would probably solve a _lot_ more cases."

"He calls me and asks for my opinion sometimes," Ambrose noted with obvious pride. "He never used to do that. _Never_. You _changed_ his life, Molly. Ever since he found out about you he's been a better man. He's been visibly happier, and I think some of that emotion has even rubbed off on _me_."

"I wouldn't necessarily go _that_ far," replied Molly with a sly smirk. "I think Adrian's obsessive tendencies give the _illusion_ of added enthusiasm. But I am glad that he's doing so well." A loud, electronic tone sounded from her purse and she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder at the large, pink and black striped bag setting on the nearby countertop. "Hmm… someone is _calling_ me," she realized, rising from her chair at the kitchen table and retrieving the small device. She studied its small digital screen and raised an eyebrow. "It's _Julie_," she announced with surprise. "Julie Teeger."

Ambrose wrapped his hands around the mug of tea and smiled. "I like Julie," he said with a nod. "She's pretty, and a really nice person like you."

"Well, let's see what she wants," Molly decided, shaking her long blonde ponytail to one side and removing an earring. She held the small cell phone up to her ear after pressing the 'talk' button. "Hello?"

Watching her from his seat, Ambrose grew curious. "What does Julie want?" he inquired.

It took Molly a few moments of patient listening as July explained matters more fully. "Sure you can do that," she responded finally. "But I'm not alone. You just happened to catch me while I was visiting Ambrose." She smiled cheerfully in his direction. "We were having tea and cookies."

Although he could only faintly hear Julie's voice from his seat, Ambrose could tell that she was very excited about something. "What _is_ it?" he asked more insistently. "What's going on?"

Molly looked at him with wide, sparkling eyes. "She wants to know if you have a speaker phone."

"There's a Samsung unit in the living room that hasn't even been opened yet," Monk's brother informed her. "I'm supposed to write the latest version of the user manual for it."

"Will it attach easily to my phone?"

"Sure. But why would you want to do that?"

"According to Julie, someone wants to say hello to the two of us."

Ambrose shrugged indifferently. "Big deal," he decided somewhat moodily. "They'll all be back in a few days, and they can call and say hello then." He glanced shyly down at the table. "Maybe one or two of them will even stop by for a visit, like _you_ did."

"No, I don't think this is a normal hello," said Molly with a light laugh. "_Trust_ me… hook up your speaker phone! I trust Julie, don't you?"

Ambrose harrumphed and rose slowly from his seat at the table. "I guess so."

* * *

><p><em>Friday afternoon, 4:56 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Adrian Monk and Natalie Teeger were cautiously making their way back into the children's zoo – back to their VIP seats at the center table. The large crowd of people seemed to ebb and flow around them, so Natalie hesitantly touched Monk's shoulder several times and urged him to slow up. The number of small children had increased, and she wanted to make certain that none of them ended up separated from their parents. "You just <em>had<em> to have a fresh bottle of water," she pointed out with a stern shake of her head. "What was wrong with the half empty bottle on the table?"

"It's been _setting_ out for almost an hour," protested Monk darkly. "Hello! My saliva was in there. Can you say _germ_ factory?" Both of them were wearing large, red- and blue-colored VIP passes clipped to their clothing, allowing the police officers guarding the entrance to the children's zoo to instantly recognize them. One of them waved the pair through, and Natalie seized the opportunity to take advantage of an opening in the crowd. She grabbed Monk firmly by his left arm and pulled him firmly alongside her.

They made it through the gate easily, but even so she pulled to an abrupt halt upon recognizing Julie's profile. Ordinarily she would have simply thought that her daughter was mixing with the guests, except that Handsome Stranger was standing next to her holding her pink, flower-covered cell phone.

"What is it _now?_" growled Monk as she stood there staring at the pair. "I thought we were going back to the table where Mrs. Columbo is waiting."

"_Look!_" hissed Natalie, pointing toward Julie and Handsome Stranger.

Monk's gaze followed hers and the two of them stared in awe as they heard the distinct sound of the rock star as he suddenly began singing his heart out, his voice directed into Julie's small cell phone. Despite the background crowd noise, he was holding nothing back and singing with a passion in his inspirational baritone that caused many of the families slowly moving past the outer fence to pause long enough to listen. A few of the parents lifted small children up on their shoulders or stood them atop the fence, holding them so that they too could watch the impromptu performance. Much of the crowd noise dissipated in a heartbeat as more and more people heard the sound of his voice. Tugging Monk gently along with her, Natalie approached her daughter with a quizzical look of surprise.

"This is _great!_" grinned Julie proudly, running toward them with a huge smile on her attractive, youthful face. "We called Molly after I convinced the Stranger to go along with my idea. He's _serenading_ Molly with his hit single 'Never Gonna Love No One Like I Love You'!" She stifled a giggle of delight with one hand and then turned to face Monk. "She was visiting Ambrose, so he's listening too! Can you believe it?"

Staring at her daughter with mild disbelief, Natalie shook her head in mock dismay. "_What_ are you going to think of next, oh daughter of mine?" she asked with a mild laugh of amusement.

"I don't know, but hopefully it will be something _just_ as wonderful!" Beaming with delight, she grabbed Monk by the elbow. "But here's the thing, Mr. Monk. When we get back to San Francisco you're going to have to explain to Ambrose who Handsome Stranger is. He's a little confused."

Monk nodded slowly. "_I'm_ a little confused," he admitted.

"I was going to e-mail her a copy of that song," said Julie informatively. "But this was a _much_ better idea! We have the Stranger right here, so I asked him if he would sing it to her and of course he said _yes!_" She studied Monk's reaction, searching for the same elation that she felt.

"He sounds good… really good," admitted Monk reluctantly. "Trudy probably would have liked his music too." His gaze drifted from the Stranger back to Julie and he smiled. "It's probably just a personal preference type of thing, but I like _your_ voice better when you sing in your musicals." He truly enjoyed watching her blush in response to his unexpected compliment.

Later, after the last remnants of the crowd had been successfully routed to the seats in the Adventure Theatre or throughout the zoo on the nearby walking paths, one of Handsome Stranger's catering teams brought a load of food into the Children's Zoo and immediately began distributing a turkey and dressing dinner to all of the VIP guests. They also hauled in half a dozen large coolers, each filled to the top with assorted, ice-cold alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. It was a typical, pre-concert party for Handsome Stranger and his team, but for Laura and Amanda Petersen it was oh so much more. Before even sitting down to eat, the Stranger walked over long enough to hug both the widow and her daughter snugly before giving Laura a check for five million dollars. He temporarily feigned an inability to let go of the check, then smiled and kissed Laura chastely on the cheek. It was rumored that he had offered her a larger amount, but Mrs. Petersen had politely declined.

"How could the mother in me have been so _wrong_ about you?" Natalie wondered curiously after the Stranger returned to his seat at the head of the main table. "Regardless of how much money this concert raises, you're just _giving_ her five million dollars?" She threw up her hands, exasperated. "I thought all rock stars were selfish, narcissistic, pompous asses. _Where_ oh where did I go wrong?"

The Stranger exchanged nostalgic glances with Mrs. Scaribelli, who sat on one end of three large picnic tables that had been pushed together to hold everyone. "You caught me at the proper time is what you did. A decade or so ago, your instincts would have been correct, Ms. Teeger," he responded politely, holding up his simple plastic bottle of Diet Coke for emphasis. "The road trips wear a person down in a hurry… I think the vast majority of us end up addicted to something." He shrugged his shoulders and smiled confidently. "Sooner or later the addiction leads you to hit rock bottom, and it's at that specific point in life that an entertainer has to make a _choice_. Do you continue down that same road you've been traveling, the one that almost always leads to an early death? Or do you embrace a Higher Power and dedicate yourself to kicking those addictions?"

Mrs. Columbo nodded knowingly. "You have to first _admit_ to yourself that you have a problem." Her infamous, rain-coated Lieutenant of a husband had finally found his way into the small children's park and was hungrily devouring turkey and stuffing next to her. But Columbo glanced up in time to hear the Stranger's measured response.

"Yes," replied Steven Kurnelowski, the entertainer also known as Handsome Stranger. "The buses, the concert stadiums, the thrill of the crowds… we all get used to it and grow to _crave_ the experience. The attention from all of those fans is like candy to us. But the traveling, the business arrangements, drugs, alcohol – everything takes its toll on a person over time. I used to be a really, really _selfish_ person, exactly the kind of man you expected to run into. Bernie and her family changed all that for me, which makes what happened to Paul and Robert's involvement all that much tougher to bear."

Natalie shrugged. "Everyone makes mistakes sooner or later."

"Back at the house, Steven keeps a bible under his pillow," noted Mrs. Scaribelli softly. Her expression was tight, her mouth a thin-pressed line as she remembered events from so many years past. "I gave it to him when times were toughest, and he embraced it and held onto it. One kind 'nudge' from a friend and colleague spurred him into a successful rehabilitation. Once he admitted he had a problem, I was able to connect him with the right people to bring him back from the brink."

"You have a lot of time to yourself when recovering from substance abuse," admitted the Stranger. Julie looked extremely uncomfortable at the revelations she was hearing, but the musician smiled reassuringly in her direction. "My life was so messed up, I didn't know where to start… so I started reading that bible," he continued. "I found a lot of wisdom in it. There is a chapter in Matthew, number six I believe." He paused, watching the sea of new faces in front of him, recent acquaintances whom he respected as equals much more so than he would have in those days long since passed. "The passage about _treasure_ in particular is what I will always remember most, probably since the acquisition of treasure has always been my primary business." He dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin before continuing. "This message states that we should build our treasures in heaven, not on this earth. For where our treasure lies, there shall our hearts lie also."

Captain Stottlemeyer harrumphed in his deepest tone of voice. "How can something like that _not_ sound good?" he wondered idly. "The problem with the _real_ world we live in is that it's tough to get by without at least _some_ treasure. As a cop, I've seen plenty of people who are desperate and the violence they will resort to as a result of poverty. No, as humble people I agree that we shouldn't love money solely, but your options in life are sure limited _without_ it." Next to him, Chief Disher nodded his head in full agreement.

"Have you noticed my touring schedule the past fifteen years?" asked the Stranger inquisitively. "Probably not, I would guess." He slowly stirred light brown gravy into his turkey dressing with a white plastic fork. "My first four albums hit platinum, but it took everything I had to meet all of the requirements needed to create that kind of musical legacy. The early success spurred all of my fans to demand even more new material, and trying to keep up with that schedule while partying on a regular basis quite literally drained the youth out of me. Everything bad crept up on me so gradually I failed to notice," he said, pausing just long enough to shake his head. "One day I looked up and realized my life was a wreck and that I could never hope to maintain the momentum. Maximizing album sales meant everything to me back then, but it suddenly dawned on me that no matter how much money I made it was never enough. If exhaustion hadn't caught up to me first, the drugs and alcohol eventually would have."

"Part of the rehabilitation process was to scale back the tours and concerts," interjected Mrs. Scaribelli proudly. "Steven makes quite a bit on residuals, since so many of his greatest hits are multi-generational. _Families_ attend his concerts now… parents who grew up with his music bring their children."

"I don't think you would have been able to pull that off if you hadn't changed," decided Lieutenant Columbo with a hearty chuckle. "I've met all kinds of celebrities in my day, and I can tell you firsthand that the tabloids keep you in the wrong kind of spotlight if you don't have your act together." He took a sip from an icy cold bottle of pop and smiled. "Even when you _do_ keep your act together, many of you just naturally seem to draw the attention of the paparazzi."

"Lieutenant, I could tell you some stories regarding the paparazzi that you probably haven't heard," sighed the Stranger. "However, given the festive mood of this occasion I will spare you such drivel. Suffice it to say that those who society blesses with an abundance of riches also face many negative consequences. Once the celebrity aura touches us, at minimum we lose much of our freedom. Yes we are wealthy beyond imagination, but _never_ again will we be able to go out in public without being mobbed by those who recognize us. Never again can we go to a simple grocery store by ourselves, or take a drive through an average neighborhood. Success is… well, suffice it to say that success is…" He trailed off reluctantly, searching for the right words.

"…a blessing _and_ a curse," Monk finished, his expression lighting up.

"Yes Adrian." The Stranger acknowledged with a grim smile. "My gift, _my_ talent is much like _yours_." He turned his head farther, past Monk and in the general direction of Laura Petersen. "_No_ amount of money can _ever_ make up for the loss of your husband, my dear," he told her, his tone of voice growing more and more intense as he spoke each successive word. "However, we cannot bring him back. That means our only option is to insure that both you and your daughter get a fresh start. It's what your husband would have wanted, and it's what _I_ want."

Laura Petersen still seemed somewhat dumbstruck, tightly holding the check given to her only moments ago by the Stranger. "But five _million_ dollars?" She shook her head, emotions rushing through her seemingly from everywhere at once. "That's a lot of money for two people, especially given that additional funds were stolen from you…" She smiled gratefully at the grinning rock star. "_Thank_ you."

"There is one thing you can do for me in return," said Handsome Stranger enigmatically. His smile curled mischievously as he studied her expression, and he waved toward Captain Stottlemeyer, Randy Disher, Adrian Monk and then toward Lieutenant Columbo. "It's a small matter, really. Please bear in mind that _all_ of these men are currently off duty, although their curiosity – like mine – is nonetheless burning hot. Could you satisfy our interest and please tell us _where_ all those diamonds Van Portman bought ended up? The Lieutenant thinks that you know something, and he seems to be an excellent judge of character."

Mrs. Petersen's expression instantly reddened from unexpected embarrassment, although she very swiftly regained her self-control. "Why, I don't know _what_ you're talking about," she responded sternly.

Lieutenant Columbo stopped eating turkey and dressing long enough to laugh heartily. "I've been doing this job for more than forty years ma'am," he chuckled slyly. "You and your husband made certain that those diamonds would never end up in the wrong hands. I can read people pretty well by now, and I'd bet a year's pay on that." He shrugged as his wife elbowed him sharply in response to his bold declaration. "I can't prove my suspicions, nor do I wish to. That's just one of the reasons why all of us who investigated this case are officially off duty tonight. If there is a way for you to return that stolen money to Handsome Stranger, I'm certain that he and Mrs. Scaribelli could find a way to put it to charitable use. But first we need to know where it is."

"Perhaps matters have already been taken care of, Lieutenant?" Averting her eyes from the multiple, interested stares directed her way; Laura Petersen patted her daughter on the top of her curly-haired head. "Amanda, if you're finished with your meal, why don't you go look at the ducks and geese for a few minutes? Just stay where I can see you please."

"Yes Momma," replied the little girl. She was all smiles, and the ends of the bright red and gold ribbons neatly bow-tied in her hair trailed after her as she scampered away toward the fenced off wading pool on the southern end of the rock face that bordered the south and eastern edges of the small children's zoo.

Laura Petersen looked down at her half empty paper plate of food for a moment and gathered her thoughts. Then her eyes moved to settle on the zoo director, Paul MacReynolds, who was seated next to Randy Disher. "Mr. MacReynolds, I believe that your zoo recently survived a long-term cash shortage after receiving several large donations. Am I correct on this point?"

The elderly, balding MacReynolds nodded his head firmly in agreement. "We… expanded the giraffe pen so that children can feed one of the animals at certain points during the day. We also avoided closing down several of the other animal exhibits due to our funding shortage, including a walrus display."

"Walruses," commented Columbo with a smile. "I really _like_ the walruses."

"How did you raise funds on such an emergency basis?" asked Mrs. Petersen calmly.

"Well…" MacReynolds appeared a bit embarrassed as he pondered her question. "This _is_ Los Angeles after all. We usually call a few celebrities or other high income earners such as lawyers, doctors and corporate administrators. My employees have many friends and contacts in the community, and most businesses love to support something like the local zoo." His expression grew quizzical. "I called a lot of people personally, but we never received a set of diamonds, if _that's_ what you're asking."

"No, Mr. MacReynolds, I am not." Mrs. Petersen reached into her purse for a moment and removed a tri-folded zoo brochure and a pen. She flipped the brochure over and circled a section on the back side, then passed it to Monk. "Would you please give that to the Lieutenant, Mr. Monk?" she requested.

Holding the brochure for only a few seconds, Monk nevertheless could not help but glance at the circled area. A list of names registered briefly on his subconscious, burying itself immediately and permanently into his infamous, near photographic memory. By the time the brochure reached Columbo, Monk was already laughing heartily. "Very good, Mrs. Petersen," he commented softly to her. "Very, _very_ good."

"Even _off_ the record, that is all I am prepared to offer," she declared firmly. "My child _needs_ her mother."

"What?" asked Natalie curiously, eyeing Monk suspiciously. Stottlemeyer accepted the zoo brochure from Monk and passed it to the Lieutenant, who received the flyer eagerly and immediately began studying the area indicated by Laura Petersen. "_What?_" Natalie's normally inquisitive nature soared instantly to new highs moments later when Columbo also began laughing. Together he and Monk leaned back and roared with hilarious delight for what seemed an eternity to Natalie.

Finally, Columbo passed the pamphlet across the table to her. "Look at the list of names at the bottom of the back side," he suggested, still chuckling with clear amusement. "The people who have made recent, large donations to the zoo are all listed there."

"Okay…" sighed Natalie, her tone of voice growing suspicious. "_Dr. Andrew Regan, Ph.D_," she read slowly, starting at the top. "_Ms. Betty White_." Without warning, Captain Stottlemeyer, Chief Disher and Julie crowded around behind her seat so that they too could study the names. "_Dr. Thomas N. Graesen, Ph.D_. _The Honorable Aaron Fleming. Ms. Nora Winters_." She held up the pamphlet and slowly moved it back and forth across the sea of faces looking curiously at her so that they too could see. Behind the Lieutenant and Mrs. Columbo, Handsome Stranger, Bernadine Scaribelli and Paul MacReynolds also gathered to take a look at the donor names. For a moment, everyone studied the list:

* * *

><p><em><strong>Los Angeles Zoo<strong>_

_**HELP us THANK Our Major 2011 HERO Donors!**_

_Dr. Andrew Regan, Ph.D_

_Ms. Betty White_

_Dr. Thomas N. Graesen, Ph.D_

_The Honorable Aaron Fleming_

_Ms. Nora Winters_

* * *

><p>"Betty White probably donates to <em>every<em> zoo in California," ventured Chief Disher with a light laugh. "She's a nice lady to begin with, and I've heard that she's a real animal lover."

"Judge Fleming is a member of the state Supreme Court," Stottlemeyer noted, wrinkling his nose with dismay as he futilely studied the list. Whatever Monk and Columbo had seen there, for the moment, had eluded him. "Other than that… I frankly don't see what's so damned amusing."

"Nora Winters is an author," pointed out Julie. "She writes romance novels."

Turning a raised eyebrow toward Monk, Stottlemeyer studied him with obvious puzzlement. "Monk?"

Monk and Columbo briefly glanced at each other and promptly began laughing all over again. When their latest outbursts finally died down, Columbo reached out with his right arm and pointed at the former detective. "_Tell_ them Mr. Monk," he suggested. "This case is as much yours as it is mine."

Folding both arms together, Natalie gave Monk a withering stare. "Yes, _tell_ us Mr. Monk," she demanded with growing impatience. "Just _what_ specifically is so laughably funny?"

Pausing briefly to regain some measure of self-control, Monk deliberately avoided looking at Columbo. In his present state, he knew that the jovial expression on the Lieutenant's face would simply trigger another bout of laughter. Natalie was already upset, and she would be on his case until he relented. So he wiped tears from his eyes, allowed his laughter to recede and then chuckled in response. "It's the _third_… name… down," he grinned, still struggling to maintain his composure. "If you drop the '_Ph.D_' letters at the end, the rest of the name becomes an anagram for 'Handsome Stranger'."

Silence reigned at the table temporarily as everyone but the Lieutenant leaned forward to confirm Monk's assertion. Columbo leaned back and folded his arms together, proudly mirroring Natalie's posture. "I do anagram-type puzzles all the time," Mrs. Columbo pointed out after a prolonged, awkward pause. "And I do believe Mr. Monk is correct." She removed a pen from her purse and began crossing off letters on the brochure, one by one. "See for yourself. _Dr. Thomas N. Graesen_, with the letters properly rearranged, _becomes_ Handsome Stranger!"

"I don't get it," said Julie with mild frustration, her big brown eyes searching the face of the rock star. "The diamonds were purchased with money _stolen_ from you… so it obviously wasn't donated by _you_…"

"No it wasn't," said Laura Petersen with a wry smile. "It was donated by Dr. Thomas N. Graesen."

Paul MacReynolds nodded suddenly in recognition. "Dr. _Graesen!_" he exclaimed with sudden understanding. "Funny thing that was…" The zoo director scratched his mostly bald head and chuckled as recent memories surfaced. "We tried to contact him and thank him. He gave us nearly eleven _million_ dollars, making him our biggest one-time donor ever. We were trying to arrange for him to come to the zoo so that we could personally honor him and name one of the buildings after him. It was a very puzzling situation for us… no one had ever heard of him, we couldn't locate even a trace of him, and all of the money was left for us in cash-filled suitcases by the front entrance. Somebody buzzed old Ed in the security office and told him the money was out there. A very strange donation it was, and the suitcases raised more a few eyebrows when I deposited that cash at our main bank. A quick investigation by the police yielded nothing, and the money arrived at a time when our accountants _really_ needed additional revenue to pay for our ongoing expenses. Dr. Graesen's generosity put us squarely in the black on a semi-permanent basis. With proper management, we'll be okay now for many years thanks to him."

"Thanks to _him!_" Julie corrected him by pointing at Handsome Stranger. "It was _his_ money."

"Not _all_ of it, Ms. Teeger," said Columbo, his face wrinkling as he flashed a knowing smile. "Van Portman and his cronies were embezzling funds from a _variety_ of clients served by the accountants at Blue Skies Plaza and they covered their tracks _very_ well over a number of years. In fact, there is probably no longer a reliable method of divvying up the pool of funds and accurately returning the proper amount to each of original owners. It's a messy situation to be sure."

"_Return?_" MacReynolds' face paled. "You're not going to try and get that money _back_, are you?"

Columbo turned slowly to face him. "Mr. MacReynolds, I have to tell you that legally we _should_. Realistically, however, I think that this particular task would be nearly impossible to complete." His gaze shifted next to Laura Petersen. "How did you and your husband manage to get _all_ of those diamonds converted back to cash, ma'am?" he wondered, scratching his cheek. "That's no small feat in itself."

Mrs. Petersen stared straight ahead, never looking him directly in the face. "My _husband_ was determined to protect me and our daughter," she declared tersely. "_He_ knew Frank Lauden and a lot of the filthy associates that Lauden hung around with. Devon's goal was to get the diamonds _out _of the zoo and erase them from the equation – to place that money somewhere where it would be impossible for anyone to access it, legally or illegally."

"So he chose to _donate_ it to the zoo under a false name?" Natalie's expression was understandably an astonished one.

"Devon passed _me_ the diamonds through the fence one night after normal business hours," Mrs. Petersen continued, her confidence returning as she noticed the warm, reassuring amusement on Columbo's face. "Our plan was to get rid of them, to put the money somewhere it would do others good but prevent Van Portman or Lauden from threatening us." She shrugged her thin shoulders indifferently. "If the money was no longer available, why would they bother us any longer?" She looked down again at her plate of half eaten food and frowned. "At least that is the part of the plan Devon shared with me. I never saw the diamonds again, and several weeks later he chose to go into the zoo, dig up the briefcase, and pretend that the diamonds were still around… that they had simply been moved elsewhere. If I had known he was going to do that, I would have tried to stop him." She looked at Columbo. "That's why he didn't tell me, because I would have called someone like _you_."

"That's what he should have done, ma'am," Columbo stated firmly.

"He was undoubtedly afraid of those two men and their unknown allies taking revenge against you or Amanda," guessed Stottlemeyer. "He sacrificed himself to save you… to deflect their attention away from the two of you long enough to put the police on their tail. Maybe he even thought he could talk to them long enough to keep them guessing. All that was needed was a reasonable delay and they would have been more worried about the looming police investigation than revenge."

"He _knew_ he would be killed," sobbed Mrs. Petersen. Mrs. Columbo put a reassuring arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "He _knew_ and did it anyway without telling me, because I would have tried to stop him… to find a _different_ way of dealing with the problem."

For a long time, no one said anything. Mrs. Columbo held Laura Petersen while she cried out her raw emotions, feelings still not totally dealt with. After enough time had elapsed to allow her to recover, Handsome Stranger studied a very nervous Paul MacReynolds intently. "Most of the stolen money is _mine_," he stated brusquely. "It's _staying_ with the Los Angeles zoo… all of it."

"But once word of this gets out, others who lost money to those crooks will sue _us_ to get it back," replied MacReynolds with growing trepidation. "They'll sue for unspecified amounts and tie us up in court until we settle… the zoo's Administrative process will be thrown into chaos and we will lose more in lawyer fees than was ever donated before all of this is said and done."

"_No_ one will sue if they have to deal with _my_ lawyers," replied the Stranger with a sly grin. "I have the biggest piece of the pie in this, and will be able to _prove_ it once Paul is up and at it again. He'll be able to assist the L.A.P.D. with the seized documentation and demonstrate that the largest percentage of the stolen funds came from my name brand. Trust me, Mr. MacReynolds, _no one_ is going to mess with your zoo. I can outspend _anyone_ who tries and give them their own legal problems. All I ask in return is that you change the 'Dr. Thomas Graesen' name on your advertising to the 'Devon Petersen Memorial Fund'."

"Excellent," nodded MacReynolds gratefully. "Consider it done."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Petersen, sighing with relief as she gratefully smiled at the Stranger. "You are a true role model sir, in _every_ sense of the word."

The charismatic Handsome Stranger actually appeared a little bit embarrassed. "Well, I didn't used to be," he pointed out. "But with a little help, I found my way back." He pulled Bernadine Scaribelli close and hugged her. "Back then, I had done so many terrible things; I didn't even know where to start in terms of making up for it all. Bernie suggested that I start with a good deed or two per day, so I took her advice and everything began to escalate. Years later, I am able to look back proudly at all the good things I've managed to accomplish. We can move on from past mistakes, but we have to do so honestly."

Mrs. Scaribelli beamed at him. "Well said, Steven."

Snapping out of the vast depths of his painful memories, the Stranger grinned. "So let's get back to our celebration now, shall we? I have a concert to do, after all, and I want to be raring to go when it's time to _take_ that stage!"

* * *

><p><em>Friday afternoon, 5:47 p.m. PDT<em>

* * *

><p>Sometime later, Columbo was standing out in the administrative parking lot, smoking a cigar, when Monk finally managed to track him down. The former detective from San Francisco approached the L.A.P.D. homicide detective in a surprisingly, generally positive mood. "The Captain, Chief Disher and I are going back to the hotel," Monk stated by way of explanation. "I just wanted to say goodbye before we left."<p>

The Lieutenant looked somewhat flabbergasted. "You're not staying for the concert?"

"No," replied Monk dubiously. "Natalie and Julie are attending along with your wife, and then they'll return to the hotel in the Jeep you made available to them." He held out a hand and shook the Lieutenant's firmly. "I'm kind of a germ-a-phobe, so I don't _usually_ shake hands," he told Columbo. "However, it was an honor to meet you, to almost get shot with you and to work with you on a very serious case."

"It was _my_ pleasure too, Mr. Monk," said Columbo proudly, blowing a roiling cloud of cigar smoke into the evening breeze. "That's why I invited you. I hope you _all_ have a _safe_ trip home. Please give my regards to Captain Stottlemeyer and Chief Disher." He flashed Monk a dry smile. "_I'm_ not going to the concert either," he admitted with a hearty laugh.

"How much longer do you think you're going to continue doing the detective thing?" wondered Monk curiously. "Forty-some years is a _long_ time."

"_Why_ would I quit? My pension is really starting to grow now, after four decades," Columbo chuckled with clear amusement. "I absolutely _love_ what I do… it's a privilege to meet all of L.A.'s elite criminals. And every year, I keep getting a better offer from the 'higher ups' for 'early' retirement." He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't even think the term 'early' has applied for about twenty years, but I do get that annual offer. One of these days I _will_ accept, but not until my wife is ready to have me home all day."

"Wouldn't that be a nice thing, for you and her to have more time together?" Monk watched the Lieutenant's reaction carefully, never knowing for certain just how he would respond. "Isn't that the objective all couples work toward?"

Leaning forward, Columbo inhaled slowly on the cigar. Its tip glowed bright orange in the dimming twilight. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Monk…"

"Adrian."

"Okay... _Adrian_." The Lieutenant blew out another huge cloud of smoke. "To tell you the truth, you're not the only one who has a quirk or two in your personality." He tapped the end of the cigar to get rid of the loose ash and smiled. "I have a few issues myself, you see."

"Really," Monk deadpanned. "I hadn't noticed."

"Well, here's the thing, Mr. Monk. Right now, my wife is half convinced that having me home all day might actually be _destructive_ to our happy marriage!"

Choking his way through the latest swirling haze of cigar smoke, Monk found himself suddenly understanding Mrs. Columbo's point of view.

* * *

><p><strong>THE END<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Apologies for the delay in posting this, the final Chapter. My cat of 11 years recently passed away and I took some time to grieve for my very dear friend. She was with me, sitting nearby, or napping by my side through ALL of the seven novels that I have written as of this date. I miss my friend, and would like to add dear Midnight into the dedication list for this story. Again, a shout out to Peter Falk and all of his wonderful detective stories throughout the years... his final batch of cases are now out on DVD, in case you're interested._

_I do not know if I will continue writing on-line novels... this mystery/detective thing was much, much more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I guess it was because a lot of the best ideas have all been said and done before in books, TV and movies. Additionally, I did not know the Monk and Columbo universes nearly as well as Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica._

_It was obvious when I began that this story would draw significantly less attention than my science fiction efforts... the fan base for either series is just not nearly as large. But I wanted to do it, to see how well I could do it and because I wanted to give Monk and Columbo the opportunity to share a case together. I think the two of them did wonderfully well, and it was nice to get to see a bunch of their old friends again, too._

_Thanks to everyone who has read and replied to my stories over the years! If I get a good idea, who knows, I may be back writing in a matter of weeks. Or, maybe I've finally flushed the writing mojo out of my system for good._

_By the way, I know a lot of you have lost pets too, animals that BECOME a part of your family. So I think you should know that I lasted two days. On the third day after Midnight left me, I ended up in a local pet shop and adopted a one year old cat. So I have a new friend to keep me company. Many people have told me that they have delayed or permanently postponed getting another pet after the emotional loss of one loved so dearly. I don't think that this is the right approach to life, at least not for me. Admittedly I went through a couple weeks of really, really serious emotional pain. My veterinary clinic had to put up with a grown man crying right in front of them. But in the end, all of the negatives were minor when compared to the 11 YEARS of friendship that Midnight and I shared. She slept next to me every night, or on my legs while I watched television. She's also one of the big reasons a cat makes an appearance in my Battlestar Galactica spin-off! She was just a youngster then, stalking me while I read or jumping up long enough to steal my bookmark and run._

_Midnight is keeping someone in heaven warm tonight, because no just God would deny pets entry to His paradise. That's what life is all about, we take the good and deal with the bad. And Midnight, along with family, taught me how to store up treasures in heaven instead of on Earth. Give of your time, talent and treasure to really reach out and HELP others and you too can do the same. Build up your treasures in heaven, **for there will your heart be also!**_


End file.
